Viva Las Vegas!

If Las Vegas is a self-conscious teenager, then Steve Wynn is an overbearing father trying to steer his kid toward maturity. But while Wynn bellows, "Come on, son, smarten up!" the misguided Vegas keeps rebelling.

In Sin City's infancy, Wynn nurtured the Golden Nugget into a lucrative trouble-making child star, sort of what Jaid Barrymore did with her daughter Drew. Then, with the Mirage and Treasure Island, Papa Wynn helped turn the city into an obnoxious, attention-seeking ham.

Now, Father Vegas has announced his new "classy" offspring with the unveiling of Wynn Las Vegas at the end of April. Boasting a price tag of $2.7 billion, the casino resort has 2,400 rooms, a golf course, obligatory wedding chapel, and a force of European-trained bomb-sniffing dogs. But can a desert city known to be dirty, sexy, tacky, and outrageous really morph into a sophisticated creature that easily?

'Refined' mega-hotel

Wynn didn't take a hotel like Victoria's Empress, super-size it, shove a Ferrari Maserati dealership inside, and call it his own. He built a monument to himself: a big, theme-less testament to what he thinks the world will consider refined.

He may have put a suit and tie on his young 'un, but Wynn's kid's tattoos still show. I was in Nevada this month, and frankly, I like the Vegas that hangs out at the mall with its buddies, not the Vegas that Papa Wynn dresses up to go to dinner with the family.

Originally called Le Reve (which means "the dream", for those of you who slept through grade ten French), the resort's name changed early on in the game. Peter Arnell, who recommended the re-branding, says in a press release, "Everyone knows intuitively what the name Wynn stands for… it is a brand that already exists, but until now has remained behind the scenes." Hide in the wings no more, Mr. Wynn.

Subtle glare

Wynn's name is plastered on everything - it drifts across the myriad flat screen TVs, and it's sculpted into the heavy cutlery at the all-you-can-eat buffet. In this resort, it doesn't feel as if Steve-o is Big Daddy, but Big Brother - rest assured that he (along with his 270 person security team) is watching you.

Wynn Las Vegas is glitzy and chintzy in the oddest places. In one of the casino bathrooms, five beautiful upside-down umbrella-esque light fixtures hang where three would look opulent. But outside the resort, the lush-looking grass is nothing more than Astroturf. Rows of trees "salvaged" from the desert offer the illusion of a dense forest, but a closer inspection reveals camouflage netting covering the walls behind the plants.

Don't get me wrong - this is a good thing. It means the Wynner hasn't changed the place as much as Vanity Fair, the New York Times and USA Today would make you think. It means you can still treat the city as your Mardi Gras. You can still blow off enough steam to survive the everyday lent that is your life in a cubicle.

Bless you, Vegas, for keeping a touch of trash.

Sophisticated flip-flops

This offers a much-needed balance to preppy, stuck-up mama's boys like Nice, France. Last summer, while dressed backpacking-bum-style in a jean skirt and tank top, I tried to see the inside of a beachfront casino in the South of France. As my friend and I traipsed into the foyer, a bouncer stopped us to look us up and down. He asked for our ID, though we are well above the legal drinking age, thankyouverymuch. We smiled. We batted our eyelashes. Then, blaming our flip-flops, he banished us from the site.

How would the bad-ass Vegas treat a vacationing vagabond, I wondered? So, I wore flip-flops to Wynn even though the resort recommends a "sophisticated style of dress," and advises me "Tee Shirts, tank tops, shorts, and athletic shoes are not appropriate." Then, to kick it up a notch, I wore jeans to the very expensive, Le Reve (a spectacular spectacle, I should add), where I was flanked by people in dresses and suits.

Maybe it's because the city is friendly. Maybe it's because it sees the diamond shining inside my coal-covered self. Or maybe it's because it knows I have the same potential to lose hundreds of dollars at the blackjack tables as the dude in the suit beside me. I was offered complimentary drinks in Wynn's sportsbook, and I was ushered to my seat at the show -- in other words, I was treated delightfully.

Adult Disneyland

Being in Vegas is what I imagine it would be like to be six years old and have your parents let you loose in Disneyland. You have a feeling of complete lawlessness. As a former bartender, I never allowed customers to leave the restaurant with a drink in hand - blame the liquor laws, not me. So I felt positively naughty slurping a margarita while tripping down the strip.

The true glory of Vegas is something Wynn seems to have taken to heart: regardless of how much money you spend, you should spend it as tackily as possible.

I saw a bride decked in white wandering through Belagio's Chanel boutique while her husband waited outside. Lucky thing. She lived the dream of every little girl who ever knelt beside her bed, clasped her tiny hands together, squeezed her eyes shut and prayed Please, God, let me marry a handsome prince who will take me shopping at Chanel on my wedding night.

'Classist' catfight

In many ways, this LV (Las Vegas) trumps the home of the other LV (Louis Vuitton): Paris, long considered the classiest of world-class cities.

I lived in the quaintest cottage in the middle of the city of lights last summer. Though I was there for a healthy month, I never managed to climb the Eiffel Tower. I tried twice, but it was closed due to high winds both times and I still resent that thousand-foot metal asparagus.

This side of the pond, where I stayed in a room the same size as my cottage, Paris Las Vegas' "Eiffel Tour," as they call it, is much smaller, has no search light on top, and does not spasmodically glitter at night like a malfunctioning Christmas tree display. Las Vegas 1, Paris 0.

In Paris LV, the sidewalks are covered in smut instead of shit. Pamphlets hawking "Strippers direct to your door!" litter the sidewalk and promise "No blind dates! You get to see her first!" In real Paris, sidewalks are smeared with the feces of park-deprived dogs whose owners have little respect for the bottom of my shoes. As far as stepping in things goes, I'd take porn over Parisian poodle poop any day. Las Vegas 2, Paris 0.

In either place, if you try speaking to people in broken, terribly accented French, they'll surely get frustrated and answer in English. Both have triumphal arches, both have crepes, both have cheese. Ok, it's still 2-0, but do you see how Wynn's baby trumps class?

That, mes amis, is why we'll always have Vegas.

Kelsey Dundon is a frequent contributor to The Tyee.