Atlantic City is dead. At least it appears that way on a stinging but sunny November afternoon.
The second parking spot in the Harrah’s garage is available. In twenty years visiting America’s Playground, I’ve never been lucky enough to park on a level below the fourth. Two spots across the aisle were also vacant.
The drive down Route 30 through Galloway and Little Egg Harbor was familiar en route but different in landscape. Many of the hotels, motels and eateries clogging the arteries leading into the heart of east coast gambling were gone. The billboards snaking the final mile into town boasts the names of singers who never quite were famous and C-list celebs still somehow drawing a crowd.