By Kristin Owens
Last weekend I sat in the luxurious reception area of the Bellagio Hotel in Las Vegas. The velvet couch was red, not burgundy. The Chihuly art glass installed in the ceiling glistened with multicolored hues; they weren’t blue.
However, the hotel smelled the same . . . eau d’expensive fragrance pumped throughout fifty thousand square feet of overindulgence. Two for three, apparently my memory grew a little faulty over the past ten years.