I came over from Hong Kong for the day, expecting nothing but roulette wheels, maybe a few neon dragons. What I found was different. Cobblestone streets named after Portuguese poets, crumbling churches above incense-heavy temples. Grandmothers selling Pasteis de Nata beside mirrored casino walls.

In ten minutes, you can walk from a Jesuit ruin to a Taoist shrine, past colonial facades, and men in suits heading for the baccarat tables. Macau doesn’t blend East and West - it collides them.

The casinos are vast and surreal. They make seven times the revenue of Las Vegas, yet feel quieter, heavier, more precise. Just beyond them, life moves differently. Kids play in alleyways. Old men sip tea under banyan trees.