Стрип на рассвете с 36-го этажа

[By Marcia Milner-Brage in Las Vegas, Nevada, USA]

I was just passing through. It was my first time in Vegas, and probably my last. I had a plane to catch in the morning. Sixteen hours was all I had to grab a few impressions and get some sleep.

I walked down The Strip. Along with other sightseers, I was dazzled by the ever-flashing, super-amped, neon extravaganza. I saw long-legged showgirls in skimpy costumes. Feather plumes attached to their butts flowed behind as they walked to work in impossibly high platform stilettos. I saw buskers and mimes. I saw homeless people sleeping on the sidewalk. Steps away, selfie stick equipped tourists snapped pictures with the Bellagio Fountain as a backdrop. I drew the Mirage Volcano erupting. 

I walked through an opulent casino-hotel. Dice rolled, roulette wheels turned, chips were moved across felt-covered tables, cigar and cigarette smoke hung in the air, slot machines rang out encouraging and disparaging sounds. Dealers or gamblers—no one smiled, all intent under low-hanging lights on the impending loss or hoped for bonanza. I saw a richly dressed, bejeweled, old woman slumped in a lobby chair, her lipstick smeared, her high-end handbag at her feet. A concerned hotel employee was trying to rouse her. Had she just had too many? Or was she dead?

From our 36th floor hotel room, at dawn, while my husband slept, I drew the city that does not have an off-switch.