Bad tricks in Las Vegas
A walk through hell, where the coins ring heavenly
A walk through hell, where the coins ring heavenlyby David H. Guggenbühl-Meile and Martin R. Bloch*
Las Vegas is an artificial oasis in the Nevada desert. The man-made world of amusement lulls visitors: they quickly lose their sense of time and space, light and shadow. There is a system to this, because Las Vegas is all about one thing: money.
Time plays no role in Las Vegas; on the contrary. The more of it there is, the better. Anyone entering the huge catacombs of Las Vegas, these oversized gambling dens, will hardly ever see one thing: a public clock.
After days of wandering around Las Vegas, you discover just one timepiece - a large Rolex in front of a jeweler's shop window. Las Vegas fears watches like the devil fears holy water. Nothing, absolutely nothing should remind the player of the time. Las Vegas is not set on time, but it is set on gambling.
When gamblers sit at the blackjack table or in front of one of the countless one-armed bandits, they must not think about the time that is slipping through their fingers like dollars. In Las Vegas, it is as taboo as sex in a convent school. Gamblers are supposed to lose themselves in a timeless space, preoccupied only with what makes the casinos money: the game.
And because time is not allowed to exist, casinos fear daylight as well as clocks. No glimmer, no shadow, no ray of light penetrates the large halls from outside. Instead, the gambling halls appear in a strange twilight, not morning and not evening, certainly not midday and certainly never dark night, bedtime. Timeless, in other words.
Many paths lead in,
but no one out
For example, the Hotel Paris. A hotel like any other. Huge, huge, huge; 3000 rooms, maybe even 4000. And in the center a gigantic arcade behind a 1:2 scale replica of the Eiffel Tower, in the twilight of course and without a clock.
But also without any exit. Because that is also frowned upon in the gambling city: the exit. All roads lead to Las Vegas, but no way leads out again. Exits are generally not marked and are almost impossible to find. So the hotel guest has no choice but to march bravely through the halls, once to the left and once to the right, once up and once down, past these dull figures sitting in front of the slot machines, with a popcorn cup full of change in their hands, apathetically feeding the machine, through the endless canyons of slot machines, with one goal in mind: let there be daylight.
But it's not just the exits that are almost impossible to find: The reception is hidden, the toilets are in the farthest corner, the lifts barely visible and the bar only faintly visible in the background.
A ringing, as if
Angels sing
But listen and be amazed: in the catacombs of Las Vegas, a heavenly tinkling sounds incessantly.
There are the machines that dispense money and pay out winnings. They occasionally ring or rattle in chorus with the jubilant jubilation of the lucky winners. But some just sit there and accept the payout like a wife's scolding after twenty years of marriage: emotionless, calm, hardened. Nothing knocks them off their feet that quickly.
Some machines even set off a siren, shriller than any alarm and so loud that no one in the huge hall can miss it and everyone knows: right now, at this very moment, someone is winning again! And because it could be anyone, even the poorest pig, the siren probably wants to convey the message that you should continue to play with hope. Until there is no more money in your wallet.
And all this tinkling, ringing and howling, all these sirens weave themselves into a wonderful unity: into an endless, timeless keynote that sounds like big money. Discreet for the most part, occasionally shrill, but always just loud enough for everyone to hear, the money jingles in the background. And everyone thinks to themselves: there's something to be won here.
In Las Vegas, the smell of
Dreams after toilet duck
Wherever you go, the smell is already there, everywhere in Las Vegas. Whether in the hotel room, in the corridors, in the halls, at the reception - it even follows visitors into the toilets; these sweet wafts of scent, a mixture of chewing gum and floor polish, toilet duck and raspberry syrup.
And because it is everywhere and the same everywhere, there is only one explanation. It must be the sweet smell of money that accompanies guests in Las Vegas at every turn, constantly reminding them that they can win a lot and where they should go to make their fortune. Sweet dreams.
Everyone here only wants one thing: money and more money
Are you familiar with the minibar in hotel rooms? From which you treat yourself to something in your room in the evening and then relax and watch some trivial movie on TV?
The huge hotels in Las Vegas have grandiose hotel rooms. They are so big that every resident feels like a little prince. And that's a good thing, because a prince gives princely tips and probably finds other generous uses for his money. But you won't find a minibar in any Las Vegas hotel room. There is only a bottle of lousy drinking water in the bathroom.
And the TV program is so lousy that you feel like you're in the Hotel Garni in Oberglatt. If you want entertainment, you shouldn't watch TV, you should go down into the catacombs, into the ringing twilight, you should wander through the corridors and play until you run out of money.
And if you're thirsty, you should also go down to the hall, to some bar that you can only dimly make out in the background, wander through the corridors, to the vending machines and play until you run out of money too.
But even in such a case it's not over yet, there is still hope, because the friendly hotel management informs the guest in the hotel brochure about the many credit options available. Give me cash, honey.
This is Las Vegas, a city in the middle of the desert that has learned to live with artificiality and knows better than any city in the world how to take money out of visitors' pockets.
*David H. Guggenbühl-Meile and Martin R. Bloch are partners in the agency Bloch Guggenbühl Associates AG in Zurich.
Las Vegas is an artificial oasis in the Nevada desert. The man-made world of amusement lulls visitors: they quickly lose their sense of time and space, light and shadow. There is a system to this, because Las Vegas is all about one thing: money.
Time plays no role in Las Vegas; on the contrary. The more of it there is, the better. Anyone entering the huge catacombs of Las Vegas, these oversized gambling dens, will hardly ever see one thing: a public clock.
After days of wandering around Las Vegas, you discover just one timepiece - a large Rolex in front of a jeweler's shop window. Las Vegas fears watches like the devil fears holy water. Nothing, absolutely nothing should remind the player of the time. Las Vegas is not set on time, but it is set on gambling.
When gamblers sit at the blackjack table or in front of one of the countless one-armed bandits, they must not think about the time that is slipping through their fingers like dollars. In Las Vegas, it is as taboo as sex in a convent school. Gamblers are supposed to lose themselves in a timeless space, preoccupied only with what makes the casinos money: the game.
And because time is not allowed to exist, casinos fear daylight as well as clocks. No glimmer, no shadow, no ray of light penetrates the large halls from outside. Instead, the gambling halls appear in a strange twilight, not morning and not evening, certainly not midday and certainly never dark night, bedtime. Timeless, in other words.
Many paths lead in,
but no one out
For example, the Hotel Paris. A hotel like any other. Huge, huge, huge; 3000 rooms, maybe even 4000. And in the center a gigantic arcade behind a 1:2 scale replica of the Eiffel Tower, in the twilight of course and without a clock.
But also without any exit. Because that is also frowned upon in the gambling city: the exit. All roads lead to Las Vegas, but no way leads out again. Exits are generally not marked and are almost impossible to find. So the hotel guest has no choice but to march bravely through the halls, once to the left and once to the right, once up and once down, past these dull figures sitting in front of the slot machines, with a popcorn cup full of change in their hands, apathetically feeding the machine, through the endless canyons of slot machines, with one goal in mind: let there be daylight.
But it's not just the exits that are almost impossible to find: The reception is hidden, the toilets are in the farthest corner, the lifts barely visible and the bar only faintly visible in the background.
A ringing, as if
Angels sing
But listen and be amazed: in the catacombs of Las Vegas, a heavenly tinkling sounds incessantly.
There are the machines that dispense money and pay out winnings. They occasionally ring or rattle in chorus with the jubilant jubilation of the lucky winners. But some just sit there and accept the payout like a wife's scolding after twenty years of marriage: emotionless, calm, hardened. Nothing knocks them off their feet that quickly.
Some machines even set off a siren, shriller than any alarm and so loud that no one in the huge hall can miss it and everyone knows: right now, at this very moment, someone is winning again! And because it could be anyone, even the poorest pig, the siren probably wants to convey the message that you should continue to play with hope. Until there is no more money in your wallet.
And all this tinkling, ringing and howling, all these sirens weave themselves into a wonderful unity: into an endless, timeless keynote that sounds like big money. Discreet for the most part, occasionally shrill, but always just loud enough for everyone to hear, the money jingles in the background. And everyone thinks to themselves: there's something to be won here.
In Las Vegas, the smell of
Dreams after toilet duck
Wherever you go, the smell is already there, everywhere in Las Vegas. Whether in the hotel room, in the corridors, in the halls, at the reception - it even follows visitors into the toilets; these sweet wafts of scent, a mixture of chewing gum and floor polish, toilet duck and raspberry syrup.
And because it is everywhere and the same everywhere, there is only one explanation. It must be the sweet smell of money that accompanies guests in Las Vegas at every turn, constantly reminding them that they can win a lot and where they should go to make their fortune. Sweet dreams.
Everyone here only wants one thing: money and more money
Are you familiar with the minibar in hotel rooms? From which you treat yourself to something in your room in the evening and then relax and watch some trivial movie on TV?
The huge hotels in Las Vegas have grandiose hotel rooms. They are so big that every resident feels like a little prince. And that's a good thing, because a prince gives princely tips and probably finds other generous uses for his money. But you won't find a minibar in any Las Vegas hotel room. There is only a bottle of lousy drinking water in the bathroom.
And the TV program is so lousy that you feel like you're in the Hotel Garni in Oberglatt. If you want entertainment, you shouldn't watch TV, you should go down into the catacombs, into the ringing twilight, you should wander through the corridors and play until you run out of money.
And if you're thirsty, you should also go down to the hall, to some bar that you can only dimly make out in the background, wander through the corridors, to the vending machines and play until you run out of money too.
But even in such a case it's not over yet, there is still hope, because the friendly hotel management informs the guest in the hotel brochure about the many credit options available. Give me cash, honey.
This is Las Vegas, a city in the middle of the desert that has learned to live with artificiality and knows better than any city in the world how to take money out of visitors' pockets.
*David H. Guggenbühl-Meile and Martin R. Bloch are partners in the agency Bloch Guggenbühl Associates AG in Zurich.
