Cincinnati, Ohio is probably the best place to write about Las Vegas, and as I await my connecting flight to Miami, a sobering respite from the two notorious party towns on my itinerary.
And although I made a deal with myself that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, I can tell you this: Never before have the relative creative powers of man and nature inspired and appalled me with such veracity than yesterday. It is a story of love and hate. Two houses, both alike in magnitude, the first the Vegas Strip, painted in broad, neon brush strokes; the second, the Grand Canyon, in a much gentler orange hue, are built on and into the neighbouring states of Nevada and Arizona.
It took but a short, and albeit expensive, helicopter trip to realise that Vegas, the glowing and glamourous lady of the night was a gaudy and vulgar thing by day. And, as is so often the case the "morning after", I was hungover, a few bob short and filled with regret.
But flying into the Canyon last night I fell in love. Perhaps because, sitting as I was, awkwardly between two Honeymooning couples, there was a lot of love in the air. Nevertheless, this gaping 18 mile wide hole in the lunar-like landscape is a thing of magnificent beauty. And although I spent a lot money getting there it was certainly well spent. And a much safer bet than Vegas.
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