When I think of Vegas, the word that comes to mind is legend. This is the town built by cowboys, then by the mob, then by Sinatra (and, well, still the mob). This is the town that was transformed by men like Jay Sarno and Steve Wynn, who brought forth a series of impossible flights of fancy built side to side for miles down a single street.

It’s a town where nothing lasts forever, but everything does, where stories grow more quickly in time than the towers on the Strip. It’s the town of Frankie, Dino and Sammy; the town of Danny Ocean and his crew; a town of big bets and of the best and most memorable triumphs and defeats. It’s a town where the impossible doesn’t seem simply possible, but downright likely.

The corny adage is that what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. This is true and false. Memories made there get inextricably tied to the place, but you absolutely take them with you.

Vegas isn’t a place. It’s an idea, and perhaps for some, an ideal.

It was with this thought in mind that I boarded a ferry from Hong Kong, heading westward to Macau.

One of my favorite stops on Project Pacific Circle was Hong Kong. I’ve never been somewhere with such a high density over such a large area; the number of high-rises is almost impossible to believe.

Simply taking it all in is much of the fun on a quick visit, so I wanted to share a few tips from my time on the ground so you can make the most of your time in the city:

“You want a beer?” he asks, already on his way to fetch one. It’s about 10:15AM in Hong Kong when a cold can of Carlsberg is slipped into my hand; the man I’m speaking with begins to pull books of swatches down from the shelf.

To get here, I first took a shuttle from my hotel to the hotel, The Peninsula, globally renowned and famous for its fleet of Rolls Royces, all painted a certain deep shade of green named in honor of the hotel that operates them as transport for its guests.

I walked north up Nathan Road, perhaps the busiest of the tourist streets in the Tsim Sha Tsui district of Kowloon. I passed thousands of mingling locals and tourists. I saw a boy no more than four years old drop his pants to pee on the side of a shop while the shop’s owner looked on, disinterested. I escaped from a dozen barking salesmen trying fervently to earn my business, employing variations on, “Hey, buddy,” intoned with varying levels of conspiracy. I took a right at an unremarkable yellow sign and made my way down a shabby hallway to a store not much bigger than my hotel room.

Every bit of the store’s walls not hidden by shelving is plastered with hundreds of pictures, nearly all autographed with a personal message, from a cavalcade of world leaders and celebrities. George, George W, and Jeb Bush are all here. So is Bill Clinton, and Hillary. Angela Merkel, Prince Charles, Ronald Reagan, Tony Blair, Michael Jackson, David Bowie, Venus Williams, Richard Gere: all here.

Some of the most immediately recognizable men appear in just an undershirt, carefully holding in place a pair of partially constructed pants. Others appear at events and banquets in full regalia. Nearly all of them appear with one of three men, all of Indian heritage, always with a grin and often with measuring tape in hand. Every autograph is addressed simply to Sam, followed by a note: “Thanks for the suit!”

Sam’s Through The Years

The website for Sam’s Tailor proudly touts: