Macao is two places laid on top of each other. One is the peninsula of cobbled squares, tiled church fronts and shrine smoke — a Portuguese-Chinese old town of 400 years that you can cross on foot in an afternoon. The other is the Cotai strip of air-conditioned fantasy: a fake Venice with gondoliers singing under a painted sky, shows that cost a family MOP 1,700 a night, and gaming floors that never close. The odd thing is that both are genuinely good.
Locals are cheerfully indifferent to the second Macao. They drink tea in old Cantonese tea houses, queue for pork chop buns, and leave the baccarat tables to visitors. Ride a bike forty minutes south to Coloane and you are in a fishing village where neighbours play cards under the banyans and the most famous egg tart bakery on earth operates out of a shopfront barely wider than its door.
The city got its name from a goddess. When the first Portuguese sailors landed in the 16th century and asked what the place was called, the locals thought they meant the temple and answered 'A-Ma-Gao', the bay of A-Ma. It came out as MACAU. The temple is still there, still the oldest in the city, and still working — at Chinese New Year the crowds at its gates start on New Year's Eve and burn firecrackers into the small hours.
It is also absurdly easy to visit. Ferries from Hong Kong run every 30 minutes until after midnight, the Gongbei border from Zhuhai opens at 07:00, and once inside, the resorts' free buses and a MOP 3.2 city bus network do the rest. Two days is enough; three lets you slow down.