Tahquitz Canyon and McCallum Way

Even though many of my friends vacationed in Palm Springs over Christmas, it’s my unshakeable opinion that the weather there doesn’t turn perfect until after what used-to–be-called the Bob Hope Desert Classic in January.  Arnold Palmer won the very first one- and that ought to give you all an idea about how long I have been going to Palm Springs.

The fact that the tourney has had more name changes than me doesn’t dampen my enthusiasm for it- or this wonderful town. Over the years I’ve had a lot of fun in the sun- a great candy store, btw.  (Remember their festive red and white striped boxes?) and with the last of winter still stubbornly hanging around here, now seemed a good a time to share my memories of my very first trip there.

I made my first P.S. visit in  February 1970.  My girlfriend Vicki’s parents were warming a house on Via Estrella and they were going to throw a bash to end all bashes.  Vicki wanted someone under sixty to represent.  I was tapped.

OMG!  The house.  It was my first experience with modern architecture meets Dick Himmel’s “the sky’s the limit” design budget.  Every where you looked was a Warholian feast for the eye.  The furniture was lucite. The pop art priceless.  The rugs were designed by Vasarely.  And the setting was great- smack dab on a fairway of the Canyon Country Club.  Our twenty-year-old feet never touched a gas pedal- unless it was attached to a golf cart.

We would wake up late, zip over to the club and lunch deliciously (and on the cuff of Vicki’s folks’) as we watched the party prep.  Workers drained the family pool, built a dance floor over it, and pitched a gigantic tent to cover the gala proceedings.

And as we watched, the rest of the club watched too. Half of the club was invited to the shindig, and watching the tent go up replaced gin rummy as the favorite afternoon club activity.

But when a sudden gust of desert wind blew the tent down, the other half- the half that hadn’t been invited- cheered nonstop for five minutes.  It was mortifying- yet really funny.  It was my first experience with party schadenfreude.

It was my first experience with other things, too.  It was the first time I saw a personal bodyguard at a private event.  The night of the party, guest Bobo Rockefeller was sporting some major ice and a flatfoot shadowed her all evening.  The party also coincided with Vicki’s twenty-first birthday and her parents had lavished upon her a diamond and sapphire bracelet that Peggy Hopkins Joyce would have been proud to flaunt.  I had never seen that before either.

They drove a Mercedes-Benz.  First time in one of those.  (All the rich people I heretofore knew had Lincoln Continentals, Chrysler Imperials or Cadillacs.)  Vicki had a darling Yorkshire terrier named Samantha.  First time I had ever seen one of those up close and personal, too.

We wined and dined all over town.  Went to Dominick’s.  Feasted at Ol Blue Eyes’ favorite hangout- the late, great Ruby’s Dunes- where we did see Frank and his buddy, Jilly Rizzo.  Vicki loved Le Vallauris.  I loved the Billy’s double burger at Billy Reed’s.  (Along with their cream of chicken soup and Boston cream pie.  Ah, the appetite and basal metabolism of youth. Those were the days…)

I met movie stars.  I even necked with one very minor, very handsome one- before he went on to marry a much bigger movie star.  I drank my very first Bullshot at the Racquet Club.  The two events were not unrelated.

We went out to The Nest in Indian Wells for dinner.  To get there you needed a passport.  This was as far and as uninhabited as Mars in those days.  Miles and miles of absolutely nothing on 111 back then.  No malls, no housing developments, no car dealerships, no hotels, no golf courses.  They hadn’t even started building Bob Hope’s famous house yet.  (Just on the market for $50 million- in case you’re interested.)

There was Smoke Tree Ranch, the Elephant Car Wash, Tamarisk Country Club, and then the end of the line- La Quinta.  The drive took so long that I thought I was in Mexico.

Our days were spent dolce far niente.  Mostly us girls just worked on our tans. One day however, Vicki, who was kind of a jock, wanted to play some golf.

“Watch Sam (the teensy, precious Yorkie) for me, El.  I want to get in a fast round,” she called over her shoulder to the dog and me as we both lay on her back patio that abutted the Canyon golf course.

“No problem,” I replied.  “I’ll take good care of her.”

And I meant to.  Honest.  But the hot desert sun, and the late night partying, and Tom Jones on the radio, and that Bullshot from two days ago were all too much for me and soon I drifted off.

When I woke an hour later… no dog.  She was nowhere to be found.  As I frantically gazed around I realized that the only place she could have gone was the golf course.  It was enormous and I didn’t even know where to begin to look.  I seriously thought about packing my bags and slinking back to Chicago, but loyalty to my friend, the dog and that very handsome, minor movie star got my ass in gear.

I combed the course for an hour, (quietly) calling her name.  And finally, I saw her, huddled in terror by the cup of the seventeenth hole.

I don’t know which one of us was more relieved.  I smuggled her back to the patio and resumed the positon. Vicki strolled in moments later and was none the wiser.  My vacay was saved.

I was destined to return to Palm Springs many more times.  Once on a honeymoon.  Once for an entire winter. We had rented Frank’s old house on Via Alejo and the house was still on the route of the Hollywood bus tour of movie star homes.  I would wave to the tourists rubbernecking to get a glimpse of Frank or Ava- or even Jilly. But it was only me and Natasha- a three month old infant at the time.

The Nest’s cannelloni remained my favorite destination meal.  I never stopped loving it.  And I’ve never stopped loving the desert, either.  The  purple mountains, the incredible climate.  (I know.  I know. Unrelentingly dry.  But my ski-broken leg and pelvis love that.)

And next winter, if any of you guys send me one more Instagram or Facebook pic showing me what a good time I have been missing, …consider yourself warned.  You’d better get your guest room ready.  I can dog sit for you.  (I promise to stay away from Bullshots and minor movie stars.)

But not until after January fifteenth, if you don’t mind.  I like my Palm Springs the way I always remember it.

Perfect.