Palm Springs, When it Swings

Palm Springs, When it Swings
Nick Steele reveals the new allure of an old favorite

Excerpt by Nick Steele

In Los Angeles for work, I find myself staying for the weekend after a meeting I’ve been waiting for all week gets pushed to the following Monday. My photographer friend, Ez, suggests I join him and some of his buddies in Palm Springs for a weekend getaway. I am dubious to say the least.

“What kind of friends?” “Cool People. You should come.” “Old people?” I counter, conjuring golf pant-wearing rich folk. “No, it’s a very hip place right now – very fashionable. Cameron Diaz and Justin Timberlake have a house there. You should come.”

I am still not totally convinced but agree to go anyway, figuring I have nothing to lose. My friend’s hotel is booked, so I get a recommendation from the concierge at my L.A. hotel.

“You want to experience the real Palm Springs?” he says a little too enthusiastically. “There’s an old Hollywood hideout from the ’20’s – everyone from Sinatra to Madonna has stayed there.” “Hmmm… well, is it anywhere near Cameron and Justin’s place?” “Sorry?” “Ah, never mind,” I answer. “Just book it.”

The drive out is peaceful enough. I sleep as Ez drives, waking up just in time to see the somewhat magical, somewhat freakish sight as the sun sets behind the majestic Santa Rosa Mountains – thousands of spindly windmills wildly waving us into Palm Springs. It looks like something out of a David Lynch film or possible a leftover set from The X Files.

“What the hell?” I blurt as I adjust my seat back upright. “I know. Isn’t it amazing? It’s a windmill farm, one of the largest in the world,” he explains.

Amazing perhaps, though speeding past these giant extra-terrestrial-looking monsters that line Highway 10, I find it more dizzying than anything else.

As we come into Palm Springs, I keep anticipating the moment when an outcropping of stately buildings will reveal itself and the golden arms of this place, which has catered to Hollywood stars since the mid-1930s, will open wide before me. Alas, this is not the case.

“Your hotel is off this next street up here on the right,” Ez offers. “Okay, but why don’t we drive into town first, maybe grab a bit and then you can drop me off?” I counter. “What are you talking about? This is the town,” he answers rather indignantly. “This is it?!” I spin around in my seat to glance back at a collection of one- and two-story buildings that remind me more of a sleepy beach town than the playground of the rich and famous. “Your impossible,” he says, turning off the main drag. Moments later, we are pulling into the discreet drive leading up to the Ingleside Inn, my weekend home in Palm Springs.

Okay, I think to myself. This place feels right…. still sleepy, but in a more glamorous ‘Old Hollywood’ way. As I wait for the bellman to emerge, I notice several people dining out on the winding porch – glasses clink as a neatly dressed-and-pressed waiter flutters around them.

Originally a private residence, this elegant little Spanish-style hotel later became an exclusive inn that required an invitation – no phoning up reservations at this joint. The owner at the time hosted America’s wealthiest families and Hollywood’s glittering elite. She was reported to have been a terrible bigot and routinely refused to admit anyone who didn’t fit her standards. Among those who made the cut were Howard Hughes, Salvador Dali and Greta Garbo.

The inn has 20 rooms including several bungalows and is quaint bordering on well-worn. While the décor isn’t my speed (think shabby antique chic), the staff couldn’t be nicer or more accommodating. The real draw of this place seems to be Melvyn’s, the restaurant named for the current owner Mel Haber. Mel will be the first to tell you that he runs a restaurant that happens to have an inn attached to it and not the other way around, which may go a long way in explaining why the inn hasn’t received a makeover in recent years. While Melvyn’s has great food and is still considered a must-do in Palm Springs, this place is the sort that you go take in the “missed a decade or two” old-world character and throw back a couple of stiff ones mixed the way Sinatra drank ’em. Locals swear that this is one of the best places to enjoy the old-meets-new phenomenon that has fallen over Palm Springs. As they tell it, this is where jaded young Hollywood types come to bask in the ’60s afterglow as sweet old-timers share their stories at the bustling bar…

…we arrive at the Viceroy Resort and Spa to meet up with the others, and a theme begins to become apparent. The Viceroy is decked out in a trippier version of the whole retro-modern /space age /Old Hollywood thing.

“Okay, so does the whole town have this Jetsons meets I Love Lucy thing going on?” I ask. “It’s called mid-century modern. And, yes, that’s what Palm Springs is famous for.”

Soon we’re having drinks and ordering dinner poolside at the hotel’s tony restaurant Citron with the “cool friends” I’ve been promised as my reward for coming. As it turns out, they are a handful of models and actors down from L.A. for the weekend mixed with well-tanned and turned-out locals. Everyone is in either their late 20’s or 30’s and I gather pretty quickly that they are a style-conscious crowd.

“What makes Palm Springs so great,” explains a male model whom I recognize from a cologne ad, “is that you can actually hang out with your friends, get a tan and just relax because there’s really nothing else to do here.” “Absolutely,” is Playboy bunny (no, really) girlfriend pipes in. “We used to go to Vegas and all we did was gamble and party all night long. So we would just sleep during the day.” “We’d wind up coming home more tired than when we’d left,” model boy continues. ” We actually come back from here feeling refreshed.”

…The next morning I am struck by something quite amazing – the light. The sun doesn’t just beam. It washes over everything in a way that makes you feel like you’re inside a painting. I’m not sure if it has to do with the desert or the immense, cloudless sky framed by the Santa Rosa, San Bernardino and San Jacinto mountains, but the effect is quite extraordinary.

I decide to check out downtown, but first I swing into the Orbit In for a quick look-see. The sexy crowd littering up the pool area and boomerang-shaped bar tell me I will be returning for drinks later.

Back to shopping, it’s easy to see that the most interesting shops are in the uptown Heritage District on North Palm Canyon Drive. Here I wander into Trina Turk, which gets the award for hippest store in town. The clothing boutique is another mid-century modern temple and has some seriously chic clothes for both men and women, so it’s not surprising that the shop (and it’s sister store in L.A.) has a celebrity following. From there, it’s just a short walk to the slew of fantastic shops that run the gamut from French Country to East Indian and of course there’s plenty for Jetsons fans. Among the standouts, Panache Interiors has a dizzying array of stylish (and well priced) antiques, new home furnishings and gift items. But the whole area is worth checking out for its eclectic mix of antique stores, specialty boutiques and vintage shops. In fact, the pristine vintage finds in this town are worth the trip alone. Even though I am supposed to meet Ez for lunch at The Parker, I make a little detour based on a recommendation from one of the shopkeepers. I am intrigued to see the actual room where Marilyn Monroe stayed in 1949 on a visit to Palm Springs. Ballantines Hotel (formerly the Mira Loma) does not disappoint – the “Pretty in Pink Suite” (formerly room number three, which I like because it sounds seedier) is awash in Marilyn paraphernalia and decked out in over-the-top kitsch. And while I usually could not care less about such things, I would love to stay here just to say I’ve done it.

As I pull up to the dreamy, somewhat retro-feeling drive leading to The Parker, I spy a guy in pink pants hovering near the entrance and all the pieces begin to fit together. But it isn’t until I pass thourh the trying-too-hard-but -I-appreciate-the-effort lobby and navigate the overly preened grounds out to the pool – past two fellas in white tennis garb, who wave their rackets cheerily as they pass – that I am able to articulate the appeal of this place.

Looking over the hard-bodied honeys in an array of hues at the pool sipping complicated drinks alongside uncomplicated guys, it occurs to me: this is a hopeful, wholesome American haven with a newly acquired multicultural accent. The appeal of this place (Palm Springs) is that it is an oasis of ’50s optimism away from the gritty intensity of New York and the hard-edged preciousness of L.A. And what better place for an oasis than in the desert.

Once I surrender to Palm Springs, I am positively giddy as I am pulled into a bygone era. I ride horses in the brilliant late afternoon sun alongside Cary Grant at the not-to-be-missed Smoke Tree Stables. Back at the Ingleside, I happily throw back drinks on the porch with Frank Sinatra. And the next day I lounge poolside at The Parker – a few feet from where Clark Gable and Carole Lombard are horsing around on the diving board. I simply relax and let my mind wander under the painted-on sky.

As it turns out, the only stars I never saw were Cameron and Justin – they don’t actually have a house there… not yet anyway.