The entire movable wealth of our pint-sized Hong Kong hotel room consisted of two packets of rose-scented soap and a water glass. It wasn't much of a haul, considering how we'd been swindled, but it was the best we could do. So, after turning the AC up for one last sustained blast, we shut the door on the Mirador Mansion forever.
The weeks of smog, traffic, and fighting old ladies have tired us to the degree that we've settled on two days of luxurious R & R in Macau. The former Portuguese concession, like Hong Kong, is technically a part of China, but it has its own customs and immigration policies. You reach it from Hong Kong by an hour long ferry sprint, which we passed mostly in fog, until the bridges and casinos of the New Babylon reared into view.
Macau would like you to believe it's the new Las Vegas. A formerly seedy enclave, it has reinvented itself as a hotel and casino paradise, filled with shopping, gambling, and sin. We may be travelers, but we remain patriotic Americans, and would like to inform the world, that we don't give a rat's ass that Macau turns over more money than Vegas or that its casinos are infinitely more profitable. That's merely because the Chinese are what Tony Soprano would call degenerate gamblers who don't understand that if you sit long enough at a roulette table, you will lose your home.
How is Macau not like Vegas? In the first place, we arrived at our hotel (the famous, venerable Lisboa), and were greeted with a small foyer dominated by an enormous crystal chandelier that obliterated the view of anything else. The lobby was upstairs, and had—of all things—a long, slow-moving line. In addition, they had changed our reservation from a double bed to twin singles. And, as we had arrived a mere hour early, our room was not ready. In Vegas, if you were a hotel manager and any such crimes occurred, you would be immediately taken out and shot. In fact, they might not even waste the time to take you out first.
Unlike Hong Kong, Macau is a small territory. The optimistic American company Avis offers cars for rent, though you can probably skateboard anywhere you need. Still, we are having great fun. Our hotel room faces the harbor, and there is both a Jacuzzi and a stereo in the bathroom. The in-room minibar is free, though it is remarkably deficient in potable wine and spirits.
The Macanese idea of luxury hotel is hard to describe accurately, except to say that it dovetails neatly with Saddam Hussein's notions of proper palace decoration. Every room features an explosion of crystal, fake gold, glistening glass, and faux luxury. They glitter like old Las Vaegas.
The casino floors sit behind metal detectors—none of your Vegas-style transparent security here. They consist of small, serious rooms, filled with thoughtful, intelligent people. Cocktail waitresses do not soak them in free alcohol. They don't shout and joke. But for all that, they still stand four deep, blithely wagering their children's education on red number four.
Our time so far included a turn around the Grand Lisboa, our next door neighbor and, coincidentally, the ugliest building in the world (a pear shaped, gold-bedecked monstrosity). Soon, we plan on checking out the new Wynn and Venetian casinos, both supposedly exact copies of their Vegas counterparts (this saves on architecture costs). Our goal for the evening is to find a package of linguica sausage and an honest Manhattan. If we do, you'll be the first to know.
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