It takes a particularly Teutonic sort of gloom, I suspect, to write a philosophical column 30 feet from the slot machines of a major Las Vegas casino. A similar sort of gloom overtook Martin Luther’s soul and constipated intestines in an outhouse five centuries ago, yielding us the Protestant Reformation and untold theological, cultural and historic mischief. His example serves as a cautionary tale against brooding too much. Nonetheless, I will proceed to sin boldly, in Luther’s words.
During the past four days, I have gotten a number of blunt messages from Las Vegas. Some were simple, such as the one regarding my mediocre blackjack skills. Another was to my body, reminding me that I come from a low-lying drained swamp filled with mosquitoes that bans most public smoking, not an laissez-faire desert a half mile above sea level. More complex, however, was one about the importance of place to me.
Notwithstanding my love of the Internet and my obsession with world news, I remain an extremely provincial person. My gut-level definition of "terra cognita" really does not extend more than about 35 miles from Reisterstown, Maryland. I have lived in New Jersey, been to New York many times, enjoyed a visit to Philadelphia and know Washington, DC fairly well. My wife’s roots are in Colorado and Oklahoma, and we have family in Las Vegas (hence the trip.) But Maryland is my place, period.
We Americans are more mobile than almost any other people on Earth. Many aspects of our culture are uniform nationwide. Getting an American to move from, say, Kansas City to Indianapolis for work is not that hard. Getting a German to move from Hamburg to Munich or a Frenchman to move from Brittany to Provence is a much harder sell, due to intense regional cultural and even language issues. It is sometimes easy to forget that we are a diverse nation, although it probably got a bit easier to recall that fact after this most recent presidential election.
Americans like me are rare. Most Americans probably do not have the sense of being a "son of the soil" of a particular region as I do about Maryland. Very few Marylanders have that sense, I suspect; we do not have a strong identity as Marylanders, but mostly as Baltimorons, Shoresmen, etc.
Maryland is small, mind-numbingly small when you get down to it. Las Vegas is 220 miles from the nearest other major city, Los Angeles, and about 400 miles of wasteland from Nevada’s capital, Carson City. Baltimore is about 400 miles from Ontario, 35 miles from Washington and 24 miles from Annapolis. Being provincial from such a small place probably falls into what Freud called the "narcissism of small differences," but provincial I remain.
Las Vegas is infamous for being "Sin City" due to its explicit economic reliance on gluttony, lust and greed. Whether such "cardinal sins" are sins as such is a theological issue above my constipation level. But it is a bit jarring to walk down the Strip with a baby stroller and see newspaper boxes piled high not with last week’s CityPaper, but with a variety of PennySaver-like publications for "private dancers" who "guarantee satisfaction." There is no "Block"; most of Clark County, Nevada is the "Block", with outright prostitution licensed and regulated in most of the rest of State of Nevada. Likewise, cigarette smoke is almost everywhere - in the airport, on every street, in upscale malls. I suppose that a state that will legalize and tax prostitution can’t realistically ban the after-sex cigarette, but it permeates and penetrates. My wife took a shower after one long walk outside to get the cigarette smoke out of her hair. One can be a philosophical libertarian and yet be taken aback at the exercise of some liberties. Especially if one is a provincial tight-ass.
At first arrival I hated Las Vegas. The lights and noise and excess overwhelmed me; my "soul" sort of "vomited" and my body almost did as well from mild altitude sickness, dehydration and the after-effects of a nasty ear infection from earlier in the week. My appetite was shot dead in the land of the buffet table. My mind returned to the piles of files at my desk, the approaching litigation deadlines and my general dissatisfaction with the game of "gotcha" which litigation requires. As I lay in bed one early afternoon, I recalled excerpts of a book by a Quaker who had given up his driver’s license as a statement against the material world of crowds, money and noise. Crowds, money and noise - the three essential elements of a successful casino. Las Vegas does not exactly reflect Quaker values, I suppose, but in fairness neither do I.
My son Sam liked Las Vegas less than I did, particularly during the four-hour connecting flight from Cleveland into McCarran Airport. Las Vegas was not exactly made with a fellow like me in mind, but organized crime did not build Vegas whatsoever for the stroller and sippy-cup set. Las Vegas attempted a few years ago to make the region more friendly to families, but it did not really work; you cannot have a successful whorehouse and successful preschool in the same storefront, so Las Vegas went back to whorehouse (figuratively.) Sam’s uncle bought him a wonderful Elmo doll, however, and Sam’s attitude improved significantly. Bad luck for Sam and us that he got the mother of all flu attacks from his little cousin; copious liquid diarrhea and fantastic puking were the order of the day on the day-long flight back east.
My attitude eventually improved as well. My wife and I tried to balance the sleeping schedule of "Pooky" to allow us some luxuries, such as a meal in peace. We spent some time with her family at nearby Nellis Air Force Base, where I got a very interesting unofficial tour of the flight lines of one of the largest US air bases. I got to watch the first half of the Ravens-Patriots game at the sports book at Caesar’s Palace, surrounded by a very pro-New England betting crowd (they bet right; New England massively beat the seven point spread and ruined our day.) My wife and I marveled at an eight million dollar necklace at the Forum Shops at Caesar’s Palace. I even got to visit Binion’s Horseshoe downtown where the World Series of Poker takes place.
Provincial people eventually return home because they can’t or won’t really leave. While I did set my watch to local here in Nevada, in my gut I know that "real time" is Eastern Standard Time. Pacific Standard Time is fake, because Baltimore is Real. The people who live and work in Las Vegas, aka "the Valley", have every right to be just as provincial as I, to define their world by the mountains that surround this Valley, to fleece me of my money with my consent and to look forward to my rear-end entering McCarran Airport and leaving their Valley.
There is no "Sin City" in reality; whatever sin there is in Sin City is not really in the City but in the minds of the people who blow through it. In the same way, there is no objective basis for calling one city or another "home" or "real"; it lies in the mind of the people who come to identify with it. In the end, we all fall back to the devil we know.