Having not been a fan of contemporary Las Vegas for years, I always thought I might prefer Lake Las Vegas, a resort-and-residence development in nearby Henderson that has none of the glitz of the Strip. So, during my cross-country drive, when it appeared that I'd be spending a night in Vegas, I was thrilled to see the Westin Lake Las Vegas on HotelTonight. (This was before I realized the extent to which Starwood has devalued the Westin brand.)
I've long considered discussing authenticity to be like driving down a dead-end street, and when people complain a place isn't authentic, I always what they make of Vegas. Sure, it was invented, but is it not its own place at this point, for better or for worse? Lake Las Vegas is even more fake, if that's possible, a misguided effort to recreate a Meditrerranean village in the desert. But while Vegas has its own identity, Lake Las Vegas reminded me of nothing so much as a strip mall writ large—a sad mishmash of a destination, the unavoidable failure of its efforts at heritage oddly enhanced by the near total lack of visitors.
I loved it.
Was that because I could finally take a long walk, after days of being in the car? Because the weather was delightful and there was little in the way of noise? Because I was away from the Westin? Or was it because the place was simply magically weird, having gone the extra mile in places to be Mediterranean, and skimping in others, with vacant lots and shuttered storefronts here and there? It was postmodern and postapocalyptic, Italian pop music blaring from outdoor speakers onto desolate streets.
I loved it, and I hope I never go back.
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