Let’s Get Away from it All

Let’s Get Away from it All

How one couple did Vegas, Death Valley, and Palm Springs in a week – and made it swing, baby.
Excerpt by Dale Conour

Late afternoon, a weekday, I am floating in a saltwater pool at Palm Springs’ Orbit In with a sake cocktail in hand. Palm trees stretch to a blue Curacao sky. The rocky San Jacintos rise beyond, bronze in the day’s last light. My gal, Red, idly reads in a white chaise lounge. Tonight, a great dinner out. Tomorrow, we’ll stop by Dino’s house, then maybe Frank’s.

At one time, we were just like everyone else. But that was before I told Red, Come fly with me, baby – let’s get away from it all. Before we set out on our fast, crazy Las Vegas-Death Valley-Palm Springs road trip. Before we decided to live as large and gorgeous and audacious as the ever-swinging Nevada-California desert.

That was before we experienced the Snap. Let me explain. You can’t think about a road trip to Las Vegas and Palm Springs and the desert between without thinking Rat Pack, Ocean’s 11, ’50s and early ’60s Hollywood. This was the playground of the stars.

And those great, great songs…My friend ark, a San Francisco crooner, says this about the perfect swinging tune: “It all starts with the Snap-yes, the Sinatra-cool finger snap, but more than that, it’s the pull of the swing rhythm, which is at the heart of American jazz. There’s a technical explanation, but it’s easier to think of it as the thing that makes your insides feel like they’re being twanged. “Snap, baby.”

We rumble out of McCarran International Airport in our rented muscle car and hit the Las Vegas strip. We’re spending some cash on this one-in-a-lifetime strip and have chosen the Venetian Resort Hotel Casino as our refuge. As we head down its drive, the buzz of Vegas dies away, and we buy into the resort’s over-the-top, even theatrical, salute to the Old World romance of Venice. Well, more or less. Red shakes her head at the gondolas making their way through the resort’s canals: “They’re so cheesy!” (I vow to get her on one before we leave town.) There are only a few things you have to do on a romantic getaway to Las Vegas: Get in some serious longing-by-the-pool time, spend a night at a club or two, and enjoy an evening with a big dinner and a big show. Throw in some shopping, gambling, and yes, a little Vegas cheesiness, and its mission accomplished… we leave for Death Valley…

… A couple of hours of quiet desert landscape, singing and snapping along to Dean Martin’s “Mambo Italiano,” then a pit stop in Beatty to pick up some of Gus’s Really Good Fresh Jerky revives us. We drive through foothills on State 374, following the pass downward. The land begins to open and wind buffets the car… Death Valley National Park marks the beginning of our reeducation with the concept of “vast”. The park is more than 3 million acres in size. Even obscured by dust, the valley stretches so far that estimates seem futile – 10 miles? 50? It’s halted at last by the Panamint Range, rising dark and dreamlike on the horizon.

We didn’t plan far enough ahead to secure a room at the renowned Furnace Creek Inn; in fact, I only just manage to grab the last available room at the more economical, less upscale Furnace Creek Ranch.

We rise early for a full day of Death Valley “don’t misses,” and experience sunrise at the Stovepipe Wells Dunes, a scramble into (and, more significant, out of) Ubehebe Crater, a tour of Scotty’s Castle, and sunset in Golden Canyon.

We leave Death Valley behind the next morning. But a landscape so huge that it swallows mountains keeps us occupied until we reach Baker, 120 miles south of the valley, a crossroads town offering food, gas, and the spectacle of the “world’s tallest thermometer” at Bun Boy restaurant.

We’ve got a long way to go to make Palm Springs, so I let the car run. A desert dream flows past: Joshua trees stand sentry, jack rabbits bolt, rocky peaks rise like islands in a creosote sea.

As has happened with more than one Hollywood celeb, Palm Springs had its time, lost its shine, and is making a comeback thanks to a vibrant gay community in love with the retro charm.

We spend a morning at the fabled Two Bunch Palms Resort in neighboring Desert Hot Springs, enjoying a side-by-side couple’s massage and Roman tub soak. Our massage therapists are first-rate, but we’re under whelmed by the spa’s facilities and décor – best described as Wild West bordello.

The afternoon is spent exploring Palm Canyon Drive’s array of vintage furnishing and consignment shops, dreaming of a life in a pad that swings… On our last morning in Palm Springs, we pick up a map of celebrity homes from the visitor center. In quick succession, we check off the former hideaways of Elvis, Liberace, Peter Lawford, Dean Martin, and on our way to the Palm Springs airport, Frank Sinatra.

And then, 700 miles behind us, we’re at the airport, our trip’s over, and the plane’s rising up and away from Palm Springs.