I was standing alone in this white egg-shaped room. I couldn't tell how big it was because the room had no lines, no shadows and no edges. But it was filled with this smooth, slowly pulsating

color. I didn't have any shoes on. Instead, I was wearing these white translucent booties.

I don't think there was sound in there, but in my memory,

I've added a kind of low pulsing sound.

The colors changed so subtly that it was difficult to tell what was even happening.

I said it was alone, but that's not quite true because standing at the very back of the room was a woman dressed in all white with white gloves and a small white hat.

She was watching me. She was making sure that I didn't take any more steps forward because if I did, I would walk

past an invisible line that would result in me falling six feet into a kind of unseeable abyss. I stood there staring at the color for a full 24 minutes before the woman

gently put her hand on my shoulder and told me it was time to leave. This was the room that changed

everything. The room that made me finally fall in love with a place that I had thought I hated.

I'm Dylan Thras and this is Atlas Obscura,

a daily celebration of the world's strange, incredible, and wondrous places.

Today we're headed to the city of second chances.

To talk about the city, I gave a second chance.

This is the story of how I learned to love Las Vegas.

After this. Oh, you know, the thing.

Oh, you know. The Generally, I like to think that every place has something interesting to offer, but for a long time I took an extremely

dim view of Las Vegas. It was a city that I dismissed as exactly the kind of place I didn't want to go to. The epitome of a

kind of American travel that puts crass commercialism over personal experience

where artificial glitz prevailed over meaning, where the very worst impulses of travelers were encouraged.

I was such a snob.

Hearing all that, you can imagine how I felt wandering through what's described as the only

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