September 8, 1996 |
We like going to Palm Springs. We like the desert, the relaxed atmosphere and the heat. The heat makes you feel like doing nothing, and that's exactly what my husband, our son Travis, and I were looking to do. It was my husband's birthday. The last time Brian and I were in Palm Springs, at the Moroccan-style Korakia, we heard about the Willows Historic Palm Springs Inn, a magnificently restored 1927 home cloaked in celebrity lore that opened in early July.
March 1, 1998 |
It should have taken two hours and 15 minutes to get here from the Westside. Instead, the rain, traffic and the fact that it was a Friday conspired against me. Two hours and 15 minutes into my drive, I was still on the stinkin' San Bernardino Freeway crawling at 8 mph through one of those dang Covinas. Didn't El Nino understand? I was a woman on the edge.
December 3, 2000 |
Deer and raccoon had left their tracks on a cushion of freshly fallen powder, and we kept an eye out for the larger prints of a mountain lion or bear. Beneath the burly branches of lodgepole pine and clusters of white fir, our breath rose in puffs of steam cut by beams of sunlight. Snow crunched beneath our feet, and only the distant voices of hikers disturbed the forest silence. It was hard to believe that this winter wilderness was only a 14-minute ride from the desert below.
March 17, 1996 |
The 90-mile drive from Los Angeles to Palm Springs should take less than two hours, but this Friday afternoon in February the journey is unpleasantly extended by dense traffic. I have just recovered from a 2 1/2-month bout with pneumonia, an illness I describe to friends as, "So 19th century, like something out of Thomas Mann." To prolong the Mann analogy, I've decided to visit the new Givenchy Hotel and Spa. This is not a choice easily made.
March 16, 1997 |
Driving down the east slope of the San Jacinto Mountains on California 74, headed toward Palm Springs, I pulled over to take a photo. It was 4:30 on a Friday; shadows filled the Coachella Valley, though the Little San Bernardino Mountains to the north shone a cheery orange. This part of Highway 74 has more curves than a sidewinder. It was the setting for the frenetic opening of the 1963 movie "It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World."
March 2, 2003 |
The faint trail snaked up the San Jacinto Mountains, finally reaching a rocky precipice that offered one of the best views of the city. Grass and palms blanketed square blocks below, interrupted only by parcels of stark, undeveloped desert -- a checkerboard of green and beige. Our problem: We didn't know our next move. Which way back to the car? I wanted to veer left. Todd insisted we go right. Our dog, Bailey, a lovable golden retriever-chow mix, diplomatically declined to choose sides.