f a l l 2 0 1 5 | w e s t w o r l d 31
A
s I drift along Las Vegas Boulevard, the Bellagio
hotel fountains send choreographed geysers of
water into the air, in defiance of the fact that the
city sits in the Mojave Desert, one of the driest places in
North America. Nevada is many things – subtle is not
one of them. Even if you've never had the urge to swag-
ger up to a poker table, it's hard not to be dazzled by the
Strip, that glittering expression of American bombast.
Just as it's hard not to be rendered speechless by the
view of the Amargosa Desert from the ghost town of
Rhyolite – a vista so threadbare that the mere act of
observation makes you thirsty. And if you're like me,
you'll be unwittingly swept up in star-spangled patrio-
tism as you peer over the Hoover Dam into the abyss,
while a propaganda video trumpets this Depression-era
marvel as the world's greatest engineering achievement.
