When Places Change: Las Vegas, Zipolite, Vancouver

 When Places Change: Las Vegas, Zipolite, Vancouver

I never liked Las Vegas.

The first time I landed there on a layover, I hadn’t even left the airport when I heard it — slot machines ringing, chiming, pulling at people before they had even collected their luggage. The sound felt invasive. Mechanical. Relentless.

I remember thinking about the electricity. The lights. The excess.
And the lives gambling has quietly broken.

Vegas has always felt like spectacle built on vulnerability.

For decades, it was run by the mob. Later, it was absorbed by corporations like MGM Resorts International and Caesars Entertainment. The mob era was criminal and violent — not something to romanticize. But today’s corporate era isn’t innocent either. It is simply legalized, polished, and shareholder-driven.

The model shifted.

From cheap rooms and volume tourism
to premium pricing and affluent clientele.

Now there are fees for everything. Parking. Resort charges. Dynamic pricing. Exclusive events like the Las Vegas Grand Prix that reshape the city for global spectacle.

Fewer tourists. Higher margins. Bigger corporations.

Vegas is an extreme example — but it isn’t unique.

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In a much smaller way, I have watched similar shifts in Zipolite.

When I first came decades ago, it was raw. Imperfect. Affordable. You knew the people running the places. It felt accidental, not curated.

Now it feels managed.

Yes, important progress has been made. Zipolite became internationally known as a safe haven for gay men. That matters. Safety matters. Visibility matters.

But safety for one group does not automatically recreate the feeling of home for everyone.

Large resorts rise. Branding replaces randomness. Prices climb. The rhythm shifts.

It is still beautiful.

But it feels different.

I feel different in it.

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And then there is Vancouver.

A city I have loved and struggled with.

A city that slowly transformed from a livable coastal port into a global investment vehicle. Housing became an asset class. Downtown became hollowed out in places. Community scattered under the weight of speculation.

Different scale. Same pattern.

When places become financial instruments, something subtle happens.

Belonging becomes conditional.
Intimacy becomes rare.
Community becomes fragile.

You are no longer part of the fabric — you are part of the revenue stream.

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This isn’t about romanticizing crime.
It isn’t about blaming any one group.
It isn’t about resisting change.

Places evolve. They always have.

But when the organizing principle shifts from human need to shareholder return, the emotional climate changes.

It becomes quieter. Harder. Less forgiving.

You can still walk the beach.
You can still see the lights.
You can still admire the skyline.

And yet something essential feels thinner.

A place can still be beautiful and no longer feel like home.