There was a time – not that long ago – when I’d say, “Yeah, I’ve been to Vegas,” with the same tone someone might use to admit they once had frosted tips in the ’90s. A sheepish shrug. A quick qualifier. “Only for two days.”
Because for a while, I felt like I had to apologise for liking Las Vegas. Especially in my line of work. Travel editors are supposed to chase cultural depth, not cocktail coupons. We’re supposed to rave about Kyoto’s temple gardens or Iceland’s fjords – not a place where it’s socially acceptable to drink a frozen margarita the size of your head at 7am while watching a man dressed as Elvis marry two strangers dressed as Minions.
But here I am, 44 years old, co-founder of a travel magazine that celebrates all kinds of journeys, and I’ve finally made peace with something I’ve known all along:
I love Las Vegas. Unironically. Unapologetically. Absolutely.
And I no longer pretend otherwise.
Vegas, for all its neon excess and glitter-coated chaos, is fun. That’s it. That’s the word I spent years avoiding. It’s loud and ridiculous and frequently makes no sense – but it doesn’t pretend to be anything else. And I’ve come to respect that kind of honesty.
I used to judge it for lacking “culture,” but that just reveals how narrow my own definition of culture used to be. You want performance? Vegas has Cirque du Soleil shows that bend the laws of physics. You want history? Vegas is history – just told in sequins and slot machines. It’s where Sinatra crooned and the Rat Pack swaggered, where mobsters built empires and gamblers lost fortunes on the spin of a wheel.
And honestly, it’s where some of my best travel memories live.
I’ve eaten better meals in Vegas than in cities twice as smug. I’ve watched world-class shows perform to rooms so electric it made my skin buzz. I’ve people-watched for hours, feet dangling off a stool in a Casino, as the most diverse cast of characters imaginable passed by – stag dos, brides-to-be, retired poker champions, TikTok influencers, and confused Midwesterners wearing matching T-shirts. It’s human theatre, 24/7.
“It’s where Sinatra crooned and the Rat Pack swaggered”
What used to bother me – the absurdity, the consumerism, the way it leans so hard into its own image – now sort of impresses me. Vegas doesn’t ask you to be cool. It doesn’t care if you’re a first-timer or on your tenth visit. It doesn’t need you to understand it. It just is what it is.
And the older I get, the more I appreciate a place that doesn’t demand you be anyone other than exactly who you are. You want to wear sequins at breakfast? Do it. Want to stay up all night playing blackjack with strangers and then have steak at 5am? No one’s judging. Vegas is a no-shame zone. And honestly, that’s rare and weirdly liberating.
There’s something beautifully democratic about the city, too. Sure, you can spend a small fortune on VIP tables and imported caviar. But you can also grab a $2 hot dog, win twenty bucks, and catch a fountain show that makes you feel like you’re in the finale of a romantic comedy. Vegas is for everyone. It doesn’t exclude. It doesn’t frown. It just throws open its doors and says, “Sure. Why not?”
“I’ve eaten better meals in Vegas than in cities twice as smug”
I’ve convinced friends to go who thought they’d hate it, and listened to them tell me they fell in love with its madness by the end of day one. I’ve gone with my wife and ended up at a Rat Pack-themed piano bar, or to a very bad Elvis show which became better after each overpriced margarita.
So no, I’m not embarrassed anymore. I don’t prefix my stories with a disclaimer. I don’t pretend I was just “passing through” on the way to somewhere more respectable.
I like Vegas. I like the sparkle and the kitsch and the chaos. I like that it reminds me that travel doesn’t always have to be transformative or meaningful or deep. Sometimes, it can just be fun. Ridiculous, over-the-top, unapologetically fun.
And if that makes me a little less cool in certain circles, I’ll take it. At least Vegas won’t judge me for it.
