I just visited Las Vegas for the first time. I spent two and a half days in continuing education and a couple nights on The Strip with friends in the auction industry.
As someone who loves the tranquility of the wilderness, I was nonetheless enamored by the lights and gargantuan architecture. As a visual learner, I wanted to walk for hours and burn the Vanity Fair’s enormity into my memory. I rode Sin City’s two tallest attractions: the Big Shot atop the Stratosphere and the High Roller, the tallest ferris wheel on the planet. I wanted to see as much of the City of Lights as possible at one time. Las Vegas lived up to its reputation, even on a low-season winter night.
Las Vegas left me with the following impressions that ring true in other parts of my life.
Everybody thinks we are the exception to the rule.
No matter where you stand on The Strip, you can see billions of dollars of infrastructure and attractions—amazing feats of engineering. You’re also looking at billions of dollars that people around the world have lost—some at the expense of everything they owned. The house doesn’t always win, but it’s hard to look around the city and imagine people leaving the place with more money than they brought. The desert oasis is jam-packed with people unfazed by the evidence of loss that surrounds them.
Perception guides culture.
I only visited a half dozen of the major casinos, but I was struck how each one markets to a particular patron. Each has its own visual theme which reinforces a specific mood. Even though the clientele of all the casinos participate in the same activities, they are drawn to places with a specific vibe, reputation, or clientele.
Forced silence makes a statement.
It seemed that the majority of those handing out stripper advertisements were immigrants for whom English was a second language. Someone told me it was against the law for them to verbally get your attention and sell their wares. Regardless, they would lean toward you and smack their stacks of cards against each other to get your attention. Even in the din of the city’s main drag, you could hear that sound—and with it the silent pleas from their sad eyes. The embarrassment and desperation on their faces moved me.
Distractions often deceive us.
It’s not surprising that illusionist shows are advertised all over the place. The entire city is a slight of hand trick. Vegas successfully convinces you it’s the ultimate resort, a place where you pay for unmatched entertainment. Not even Disney could make a theme park this extravagant. The sounds and lights and fixtures are all meant to distract you from the reality of loss, even from the mass of bored and crestfallen faces slumped in front of machines.
Stories unite us.
I spent my time with new friends and old. None of us gambled. None of us got wasted. None of us hit up a pool party, a VIP lounge, or an escort service. I didn’t even take in a show. Nothing we did in Vegas had to stay there. We all brought multiple stories home with us, though—oddities we watched, discoveries we made, reflections someone else shared. We didn’t need all that is Vegas in order to enjoy our time there.
Authentic advertising is memorable.
I wrote an entire blog post about this that publishes in February, but one of my most indelible memories from this Vegas trip was a cardboard sign by a beggar that read, “Need money for weed.” In an environment that depends on the facade, that candor proved both refreshing and remarkable. As brands or individuals, we can all learn from that strategy.
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Stock image purchased from iStockPhoto.com
