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Las Vegas. What else can I say? The town is so synonymous with entertainment, it has its own marquee.

On my first trip to Sin City, the old Bob Stupak's Vegas World was still around, and my boyfriend suggested we go see Tony Martin, an old-time crooner and movie star of the '30s and '40s.

The interior of Vegas World took its theme from the 1969 moon landing cum 2001: A Space Odyssey. Astronauts loomed over the table games, as did a giant space wheel over the roulette table. Everything seemed arrayed in a dull tinsel, which was a little disorienting. Losing our way to the showroom, we asked an old-timer in a tuxedo, who pointed the way out. Once we got to our seats and the show began, we realized the old-timer was Tony Martin.

At that time, Martin was in his 70s, and seemed rather frail compared to his wife, a 60s-something Cyd Charisse, who emanated love and support from the audience. (Sadly, Charisse passed away last year at 86.) Even so, he was a consummate performer, and the evening is a gentle memory of poignant ballads, reminiscence, and surprisingly seductive moves.

Some years later, we were in town when Sammy Davis Jr. and Jerry Lewis were playing a two man show at Bally's (which was later made into an HBO special). The show was a standard two-drink minimum, both of which were dispatched before the lights went out, in order to not interrupt the performance.

Interrupting the show was something you did at your peril, especially with Jerry Lewis. Once, a man in the 10th row got up and started edging his way out. Lewis, in the middle of some story, noticed him immediately. "Put a spotlight on that guy!" he commanded, pointing to the man, who was suddenly bathed in merciless light. "Where ya goin'?" asked Lewis, in his most dulcet Bellboy tones. "Ya gotta go to the TOILET? Ya goin' go POTTY?! Which one? Number one or number two?" Once the whole audience was laughing, Lewis, said, "Just kidding, sir. Take the spotlight off him." The spotlight was off for 30 seconds before Lewis changed his mind. "Put it back on!" he ordered, turning the man's walk down the aisle into a cringefest.

In comparison, Sammy Davis only tugged at your heartstrings. But he tugged hard. His "Mr. Bojangles" had me sobbing, as it always did. He also told stories, reminiscences of the old Vegas, sang "Candy Man" and danced up a storm. But when it came to chewing the scenery, Lewis had him beat. He simply would not relinquish the stage. At one point, Davis just walked on and asked Lewis point-blank, "Will you please lock up when you're through?"

The Lewis-Davis experience should have taught us that the first rows are always part of the act. But when we saw the Checkmates at the Sands, we recklessly sat at a front table.

The Checkmates had had the hit, "Black Pearl," back in 1969. It was a hit for them, and a comeback for producer Phil Spector, whose "wall of sound" signature been languishing in the wake of the British Invasion. Ironically, the infamous Spector (who was recently found guilty of murder) went on to produce Let It Be, the Beatles' last album.

The Checkmates' lounge act was everything associated with Vegas - memories, songs, contemporary references (in this case, Tone Loc's "The Wild Thing"), and audience participation. During a particularly soulful ballad, Sweet Louie Smith advanced on me in electric blue bicycle pants (him, not me), dropped to one knee, took my hand, and sang to me alone. Now it was my turn to be bathed in the merciless spotlight, and I felt ver-ry conspicuous.

(In writing this, I've learned that Sweet Louie passed away in 2007, while performing on a cruise ship with his partner, Sonny Charles. I remember his showmanship with fondness.)

Thus, when we went to see Sam Butera and Keely Smith at the Desert Inn, we made sure to sit near the back. Butera, who died on June 3 of this year, played tenor saxophone in the Louis Prima band, in which Keely Smith sang. The Prima-Smith act is one of the most legendary of the Vegas lounge acts, right after the Rat Pack. The act was based on Prima's wildness and Smith's diffidence. After Prima's death in 1978, Butera went on to perform with Smith, (who was also Prima's former wife). 

Today, Keely Smith remains a unique chanteuse, a mistress of supreme uninflection; one might say that Debbie Harry is her spiritual daughter. That night, Smith introduced an album of Frank Sinatra covers, among which she sang, "When I was Seventeen." It was a remarkable interpretation, urgent without being histrionic. Afterward, I gushed to her about her performance, as she stood on the casino floor, having changed out of her ballgown into some motorcycle mama duds. "Aren't you dahlin'," she crooned.

The Desert Inn's Lounge was open on three sides, but the "first front rows rule" still applied. We were 10 minutes into the show when a man entered and sat at one of the front tables. Butera growled, "OK, he's here. Start the show again." And true to his word, the band started from the very beginning.

Kremlin Star

The red star, the great beacon of Communism that shines above the Kremlin, is made of crushed rubies molten into glass, our guide tells us. She may have been referring to an earlier star, which was made up of semiprecious stones, because other sources say that the red color of this one comes from gold. The Communists would have had no trouble finding either on hand - the Kremlin being an ancient and much decorated seat of the Czars.

Back in 1997, the "treasure house" of the Kremlin museum seemed to me a carelessly displayed trove of Romanov booty: Rooms full of carriages, ceremonial gifts from European royals, buckets of gems. The Faberge eggs were given space to shine, however. Each one seemed a tiny world, somewhat like an M.C. Escher illustration - turned inward and completely self-referential.

Outside the treasure house stood the world's largest bell (which had never rung) and the world's largest cannon (which had never shot). I now expect they were literally and figuratively ironic, but at the time, any form of subtlety at all was lost on me. It may have been the opportunity of a lifetime, but - bleary after a nine-hour flight from New York and a quick Russian feast (Champagne, caviar, blinis) at the Radisson Slavyanskaya - a whirlwind tour of the Kremlin was something I was just not ready for.  

I was there as part of a group of journalists invited to witness the 850th anniversary of Moscow. However, just as our plane landed, the world was waking up to the news that Princess Diana had been involved in a serious car crash, and, in a few hours, her death would be formally announced. The result was round-the-clock coverage of Princess Diana's life and death, and a virtual blackout of all other news - including the 850th anniversary of Moscow.

So as the world keened for Princess Di, our group was transported through Moscow, a week's worth of visiting churches, museums, the Bolshoi, the Circus; the homes of Boris Pasternak, Nikolay Gogol, and a "typical pre-Revolution bourgeois"; deluxe restaurants, and sleazy nightclubs. We were often out till all hours, hitching rides from strangers (a local custom; any driver would stop and take you where you wanted to go for gas money). I met a fair amount of people and formed a pretty good idea of life in Moscow. 

About the only sights we weren't shown were those directly pertaining to the Cold War and Communism. So it was with a little consternation that, toward the end of our visit, we found ourselves outside Red Square, but not heading there. I asked the guide, who said that Red Square was closed for the 850th anniversary celebrations - which we were not invited to! I then pointed to a large crowd of people who appeared to be assembling in front of Red Square, and asked what they were doing. "They are waiting to see Lenin's Tomb," she answered as she herded us toward GUM. 

Dragging my feet, I muttered to my colleagues Jon, Mark, and Karen, that I would rather see Lenin than a department store. They agreed, and suddenly we were all in rebellion. Our guide scolded that she could not accompany us and that we would have to leave our cameras behind. Tossing our cameras onto another colleague, we ran to join the Lenin's Tomb crowd - which, it turned out, was moving at a pretty fast clip. Soon, we were a tiny island of English speakers, surrounded by a crowd that only spoke three languages - Russian, German, and the language of an AK-47 being waved in their faces by the soldiers guarding the Tomb.

Turns out we spoke that language, too. Every time a soldier waved his gun in our direction, we understood that we needed to do a bunny hop back; and every time he pointed it in the direction of the Tomb, the crowd in front knew to break off and scurry forward. At one point, a man with a brief case (who was standing in front of Mark) was "detained." It was a little terrifying.

Finally, we was close enough to scurry forward as the soldier indicated. Entering the Tomb single file, we were enveloped in gloom. The black stone walls absorbed most of the light, except that which they gave off as a dull sheen. It was just as well that talking was discouraged, because the walls seemed to absorb sound as well. 

In this atmosphere, my first impression of Lenin was as a light source; the glass box in which he appeared to float was filled with it. Lenin was a small, slight man, but perfectly proportioned. He wore a brown suit, which impressed me with the thickness of its cloth, compared to the fine-boned features of its wearer. And he was encased in wax, his features barely distinct. 

We passed, single file, out of the Tomb, and here was a surprise: Between the Tomb and the Kremlin Wall is a corridor where the final resting places of all of Russia's Communist leaders, save Khrushchev, who is buried in a nearby cemetery, are memorialized. The leaders are interred within the Wall, which is called the Kremlin Wall Necropolis. The rules of the Tomb extend to this area, as two of my colleagues (who came later) found out. One of them had only hidden his camera; when he took it out and tried to take a picture of Stalin's monument, he was "detained" - grabbed and shouted at in both Russian and "AK-47" (waved inches from his face) until he was summarily released.

Back at the hotel, someone informed us that Lenin got "dipped" in wax every six months or so, which accounted for the waxy buildup on his face. She added that he also got a change of clothing from time to time. "Do his clothes change with the fashion?" asked one of the journalists. "Like, was he wearing a Nehru suit in the '60s?" (I think this question was answered by shoving more caviar at us.)

Still, looking at the soul-departed body of the man who changed the 20th century was a strange experience. My husband, who has gazed into the face of Ramses at the Egyptian Museum, knows what I'm saying.

It's like Christopher Marlowe's Dr. Faustus, for whom the Devil conjured a zombielike Helen of Troy. Without that spark of life that made them great, one can only look at their wizened remains, and wonder, like Faustus: "Is this the face that launched a thousand ships?"