Flashing Lights and Ladies - The Story of Vegas

It isn't every day that you get to live in a pyramid. And not all pyramids fire photon canons into the black sky. A month ago, I stayed on the twenty-seventh floor of the Luxor - with a view of both the magnificent phenomenon that is Vegas and the serene Nevada mountains in the distance, which seemed to be embroiled in a "I'm greater than you" debate with one another.

The World's Best
Everything in Las Vegas is the world's best - the cigars, the women, the music, the spirits, the shameless neon brilliance, the towering replicas of everything Americans consider grand. In fact, in Las Vegas, they will make you believe that their New York is better than the one on the East Coast, and that there is more love in 'Paris' than in the French capital. There is Venice and Rome and Burma and China... Everything is the World's best. The world's best music shows, the world's best strip clubs, the world's best limos - God knows what else.

Vegas is bright
In the night, planes get confused. As soon as they cross the dull Rockies and the canyons nearby, they are mesmerized by a city that dances in front of their eyes, in colours and in song. And to make matters worse, there is a hotel (my own) smashing light into the sky.

During the first night, our wanderings took us to the end of the strip, and therefore we were subjected to the immense Fremont Street Experience. The sky isn't real any more. It is fabricated by men, and it does what it is commanded to do. It can burst into flames and calm into the gentlest piano music at the clap of a hand. And all around us, women and alcohol and casinos and movie-star lookalikes.

Our fine Chevy looked hopelessly out of place in a city where people firmly believe that 'bigger is better'. Newer is also better, except when it comes to casinos: because there's not much that can compare with the Caesar's Palace (where a friend lost $300 in half an hour), the Bellagio or the MGM Grand.

The most unchanging city in the world
Vegas is a religion and it is a God. There are conjurers here, unlike anything history has ever produced. I still wonder about certain things I saw during my 'Cirque du Soleil' experience. They cannot be explained except by magic. But I won't question them, because such things happen in Vegas.

There are limousines longer than roads in this city, and planes which fly in at 8pm and out at 4am to entertain their masters. Vegas, which can easily be considered the work of the devil, leaving Dubai far behind, stands unashamed in all its glory as the world looks on. So often, in its dazzling brilliance, it shows the world its shame and asks people to embrace it. Las Vegas might be the future.

In Vegas, they will sink ships, recreate Hawaii, build Rome and make water sing just to entertain you. It's a magical place, soulless as it is. It is full of emptiness, and it proudly stands as a symbol of what might come.

Vegas is so far ahead of everything else that it doesn't change.

New York City

It's late in the night and I'm walking down 6th Avenue towards the Empire State Building, hoping to catch a glimpse of the tricolour lighting up the top of one of America's most recognizable monuments. I'm walking through the chilly air that seems to hang at every turning. A pretty woman, smoking a cigarette, sporting a Gucci bag and wearing a figure-kissing dress walks briskly across the road; the road is a still picture as she walks. Her skirt, split down the side, catches the breeze. These things don't bother New Yorkers. I turn into a Starbucks, as she walks away. "That's three dollars and seventy-five."

Macy's is closed now. That doesn't stop the bustle at its door. Some distance away, an old homeless man sleeps. People walk past him, laughing, singing, and sometimes on the phone. Wrapped in a woolen shawl, he sleeps comfortably on a wooden stool. Mornings are chilly in New York. That's why people wear suits.

I decide to return home after being trapped in Times Square like a deer in headlights. I'm spinning, turning, seeing so many things. Finally I'm asleep.

The next day begins on the same note. Everyday here begins on the same note. I take the tube from Grand Central Station. I'm going to Brooklyn. I want to see what the buzz about the bridge is all about. There's a buzz about everything here. I make a fool of myself trying to buy tickets. How am I to know the machine is smart enough to return change? I'm trying to fish for the exact coins and notes, looking at George Washington's picture, when a beefy guy pushes me out of his way impatiently. Things are fast here, faster perhaps than in Bombay. But everything is structured. There's no uncertainty about anything.

I reach Brooklyn and naturally, I'm engrossed in the Manhattan skyline. I miss out on what is happening directly in front of me. A newly married couple heads for the Pier straight from the church. They're surrounded by bridesmaids, best-men - the whole entourage. They kiss for a long time. Camera-shutters sound. It doesn't matter. Smart-ass Mexican guy standing next to me shouts, "Game over, man!", which the groom smilingly acknowledges. "Keep the bridesmaids too," yells another voice.

Before heading back to 42nd Street, I stop at Wall Street. All the big banks are here, and all the fancy TV channels which tell you 'Mutual Funds are subject to market risks'. I see a man outside The Trump Building, dressed impeccably in a costly suit. But he's sitting on the sidewalk and smoking a cigarette. Not exactly what you'd expect. Then again, people here hardly do things which are commonly expected.

Midtown again. There are photographers everywhere. It's pretty mad. On top of towers and in the subway. I'm one of them. I don't think people in New York City go to work without their fancy cameras. I need coffee again. Three dollars and seventy-five cents.

As I exit the shop, the same things greet me. Everything greets me. In fact, in all its overbearing diversity, New York looks mundane. The whole world is here, dressed in suits, vests, baggy caps and panama hats, shorts with ties, shirtless with trousers on, dresses that end over the navel, dresses that start over the neckline... Everything.

And then, I see a woman - Caucasian, fairly large-boned, and completely naked. She's standing in the middle of Times Square, outside a Broadway Theatre. She's campaigning for something, covered only in paint. And nothing else. She doesn't seem to mind, but no one else does either. People are walking past her casually. People don't have the time for naked women on Times Square.

I take another picture of Adriana Lima, who is smiling from a huge billboard far above our heads. She's looking rather stunning in her single piece swimsuit, but then there are women prettier than her on the NYC roads perhaps. They all mostly end up heading into one of those stores with large hoardings on top of them.

I think I need coffee. The usual: $3.75.

I walk out and sit down on a park-bench, to drink my coffee and read 'Kafka on the Shore'. I turning to page two-hundred-and-forty when I realize I'm sitting next to a couple who are visiting New York just like me. But they're smiling, talking and laughing. Their faces are very close, like in the moments just before you kiss someone. But they don't. I get up and walk.

I have not even finished the coffee yet when the antithesis of romance sets itself upon me. "Throw the ring away, Jane, and walk out of the house!" yells a man on top of his voice. "I don't care." I throw my coffee cup away and watch the man disappear around the bend. According to the movies, he ought to be heading to a Gentlemen's Club now, no? Anyway, I'm at Madisson Square Garden. I take out my camera.

I try to enter a busy souvenir shop. It's run by a large African-American lady. She treats me like some autistic child who is incapable of normal understanding. I feel a little discriminated against. I look up at the board which says 'NY Penn Station' and smile at America's history. Oh, the irony of it all!

I think I've had enough for the day. I've seen more, heard more, felt more and eaten more than I ought to have. I feel like the New York Times already, with omniscient eyes and all. The NY Times covers theatre just the way they cover the world, they claim. I have to see that for myself. I'll go watch  'Phantom of the Opera' tomorrow, I think.

But now, I need some coffee.