My dear Las Vegas,
I remember feeling the cool autumn breeze on the Bellagio stone balcony for the first time, entranced by the iconic water fountain show. I remember the comforting warmth of the Mirage Volcano, and the thrill of Treasure Island’s Battle of Buccaneer Bay. Of course, I also love your greatest hits: the Paris-inspired Eiffel Tower, the Rome-inspired Caesars Palace, the faux canals of the Venetian, and the rest.
Even as a kid, though, I caught on to the notion that you were basically a sophisticated theme park. As I grew older, I realized you also had an identity crisis. Are you more France or Italy? Maybe the Caribbean. New York? Or maybe you’re trying to be everything and managing to be nothing at all?
I got even older — left school, got a job — and I started taking your identity crisis more seriously when I learned that you value things like health care and education less than, let’s say, a taxpayer-funded baseball stadium.
Then, I took a long, hard look in the mirror. And you know what I realized? I wasn’t happy. I felt like you were cheating on me … with tourists.
Look, I know you are the way you are, at least partly, to survive. After all, most of your tax revenue comes from hospitality and tourism, and that’s something I can’t give you. Also, to be clear, I am fine with you seeing other people; that’s what we agreed on when we got into this relationship.
But do you really have to see so many of them, so often? Or, maybe more to the point: Do you really have to give them the best you have to offer, while you give me what’s left?
For example, you’re always “working on yourself.” People joke that the orange construction cone is your state flower, but what does that say about you, really? That you value constant cosmetic improvement to accommodate nonstop expansion over a pause for self-reflection and intentional growth? That’s a red flag, don’t you think?
But your crisis extends beyond identity and who you prioritize. It’s also about where you choose to spend your energy — currently, sports and entertainment.
It really began with the Golden Knights, then the Raiders. Now you’re obsessed with F1, a sport which has no business being this popular in America. But I gotcha: The chance to have supersonic cars speeding through your Strip was too good to pass up. And then, there’s the money: reportedly $1.5 billion from the first race in 2023, $77 million in tax revenue.
Those are great numbers. But again, at what cost to me? I’ve told you how months of race construction and preparation screwed up my commute times. Did you ever stop to think about that?
And it’s not just about the things you add without asking me. It’s also the things you get rid of — things I enjoyed, and thought you’d keep because you knew how much I enjoyed them!
Remember Bonnie Springs? The one place to realize all our Clint Eastwood fantasies and scream until we were hoarse on Halloween? You closed it in 2019 to build a luxury housing development — Yay! More expansion.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: “You haven’t mentioned the things that brought us together; like the October 1st shooting.”
And you’d be right. I’ll never forget descending an elevator at Harry Reid International Airport and seeing a banner proclaiming “We Are Vegas Strong” over your skyline’s silhouette. For the first time, as awful as the inception of it was, I felt a thread running straight from my heart to yours.
Now that I think about it, maybe it’s not all you. Maybe it’s also … me.
Maybe the fact that I’m a DACA recipient, who was born in Mexico and came to the US at the age of one, factors into my frustration. Maybe I resent your ability to constantly redefine yourself because my entire life has been split between two cultures that each demand I be completely authentic.
I’ve often thought of my house as Mexico, and what’s outside my front door as America. Maybe I have my own identity crisis, and you’re the one who’s had to deal with it? Maybe my unresolved inner conflict is bogging us down, and no matter who I settle down with, I’d have the same criticisms.
Or, maybe I just don’t know all of you.
Maybe I spend too much time watching movies and playing video games, and not enough getting out to explore you. I recently hiked your Calico Basin Trail at Red Rock for the first time, and I felt like an ant surrounded by fiery god-like formations.
For the first time in a long time, you seduced me with something new: the satisfying crunch of gravel under my feet, the occasional tumble of a stone from above, massive boulders inviting me to climb them, the colors and textures growing more beautiful as the golden hour drew near.
Maybe I haven’t been doing my part in this relationship. Maybe it’s not just you; it’s also me. It’s us.
And you know what? I’m willing to keep giving this a shot. I’ll put in the work to do better … as long as you promise to, too.
