I often write about Las Vegas, and it is not difficult to see why. Las Vegas is eccentric, regardless of your relationship with it. Growing up in a city which is painted with perverse vibrancy leads to an interesting set of expectations, both of yourself and of others. The Vegas stigma forever clings to your skin, and your choices are to hide it like a regretful tattoo or display it as a work of body art. And other cities all seem faded and dead to you, and you wonder how life in another city can respire without choking on its stagnant air.

Imagine 17-year-old me, the summer months prior to coming to college. Baltimore, Maryland. The other side of the continent; the other side of the American Culture. I did not know what to expect, but I did know what not to expect: no more lights, no more swarming tourists, no more crazy.

I did not expect to see more in my 10 minute bus ride from the undergraduate campus to the music conservatory than I did throughout the 45 minute commute from my home in Henderson to my high school in northern Las Vegas. There's something special about Baltimore (and perhaps all cities outside of Vegas) -- the way the stores seem to curate themselves along the narrow streets, the worn park benches which have been polished by tired passersby, the pollution which has filmed over the bricks of century-old churches. It's a city full of people whose existences have shaped Baltimore into what it is today. Even the tourist destinations, the places where you would expect all culture to be swaddled away in sweatshirts that say "I ❤ Baltimore," have a distinct charm to them.

Las Vegas, in comparison, is sterile. Yes, Las Vegas thumps under the beating yellow sun to the sound of disk jockeys' remixes and bouncing partygoers, but it fails to inhale and exhale the breaths of its people. It is not a place for living. Sure, there are Walmarts, and Targets, and gas stations, and movie theaters. There's a zoo for the kids to go to (should they care to see a half dead lion and a few goats), and local restaurants for family dinners. But what matters most to Las Vegas is not the people who live there, but the people who drive through. We thrive on the empty pockets of traveling gamblers, and as a result, we are a city of appearances, and appearances alone.

Las Vegas cares most about being Las Vegas. It cares about maintaining its pristine aesthetic and modern vibes. I remember walking down the Strip with my parents when I was 4 years old, and coming across Bill's Gambling Hall. The bustling street corner was shaded by a flashing rotunda which was covered in lightbulbs. Supported in the center by a mirrored cylinder which reflected the lights around its crown, it stuck out into the street from the corner of an otherwise commonplace building. I felt like I was walking through an old carousel, and looked up in fear-tinged awe.

That street corner was always a source of mystery. I grew up never understanding why I felt afraid as I stood under it, inundated by lights and people. I recently returned to see it again, to perhaps relive the experience 13 years later.

It's gone.

The concrete shines, and the corner is as busy as I remember. But the rotunda is gone, replaced by glass windows and a stark white border. A sans-serif casino title, "The Cromwell," occupies the space where "Bill's Gambling Hall" once screamed in ornate, flickering colors. The building has been repainted to a conservative beige, and the establishment looks, in one word, modern. It looks like a building of today. It embodies the contemporary aesthetic, with its clean lines and aesthetically pleasing greenery.

But I only see an empty street corner. Because Vegas isn't built for locals. It's built for people who come and leave within the same month, people who wouldn't know that a little girl once stood in front of Bill's Gambling Hall and felt scared. It's built for people who come to see something new. Therefore, there's always something new in Vegas. Buildings are knocked down before the original air inside has been completely circulated out through the breaths of tourists. Because Vegas has to be Vegas. It has to always present itself at its brightest.

This Vegas mentality is infectious, and it trickles down to its locals. I've found college to be a repeated series of introductions, and mine tend to follow the same pattern.

"Where are you from?"

"Las Vegas!"

There it is. I've found my key to small talk. It is what starts conversations, continues them, and ends them. I talk about the 115 degree heat. I talk about the movie theaters in the basements of casinos. I talk about the "stripper-mobiles" that once graced our streets, and those driving billboards that say "Girls Direct to You! Call 696-9696!"

And what about myself? I've met many people throughout this first year of college, and I've learned things about them through conversation. One has a basset hound as a dog. Another grew up in Honduras. Some have done great things with their lives -- invented medical devices, written books, met the President.

But what do they know about me? They know that the food in Las Vegas is amazing. Because Las Vegas is a fascinating city. It's far more fascinating than anything I could possibly say about myself, a quiet girl who spends far too much time studying. It's immediately appealing to a wide range of audiences, unlike my stories about my pet tarantula. It has become the most interesting part of my personality, the one that I share with others the most, and it has consumed me.

One year ago, I wrote an essay in which I embraced the sense of self which Vegas had given me. I saw how Vegas embodied its racy culture, and chose to do the same with my own quirks and oddities. Yet I've noticed in the past year how this change in attitude has manifested itself in an obsession with maintaining appearances and a resulting reluctance to try new things. I had picked out the parts of my personality which had seemed most important to me and built upon them extensively, yet have neglected to attend to the rest. And now I am left with an empty shell -- just a girl from Las Vegas.

Sometimes people ask me how Baltimore compares to Las Vegas, and I tell them what I've told you -- that Baltimore feels complete. I tell them about how every storefront has its own character, and each row-house looks unique. I talk about how every street is photo-ready. I tend to get some confused stares -- but Las Vegas is exciting, and different! I suppose it's a feeling you only understand if you've grown up in a city which focuses its efforts on satisfying passersby and houses its locals in cookie cutter quarters. Perhaps when you've been surrounded by superficiality your entire life, you fail to recognize how it has embedded itself into you.

In my previous essay, I asked why other cities are afraid to put more colorful lights on their skyscrapers. And now, I know why: because those lights blind pedestrians to the buildings they adorn, and obscure the people inside them.