Hello from Palm Springs, California. Sorry that I haven’t written before now. I have no excuse except that I was doing other things. And I couldn’t decide what to write. And I didn’t feel like writing. But like with so many other things, you start first and the satisfaction comes after.
You know, you chop the wood, split off some kindling, strike a match and blow on the lit kindling until it catches, then you feed in more kindling, then the flames die out. At that point you swear. Then you start over by applying new kindling and burning your fingers and swearing with gusto. Then you blow on dying embers until you are dizzy at which point you drop to your knees until your head clears. You mutter and the swearing comes. But now the fire catches, and the bigger pieces join in. Then you get heat and warmth. That’s how it is with writing, too. I know this and yet I always doubt until I do it again. Light and the warmth are also the secret sauce of Palm Springs.
Palm Springs stays beautiful, no matter what is happening in the world. The blue skies, the mountains, and the palm trees (which aren’t trees) are eternal, always spectacular and always pointing upwards, pulling us out of our gloom and propelling us out of our narrow little selves, which is a terrible place to spend too much time. That company is the worst.
It is a lazy generalization to say that people come here for the weather. It’s more than that. The scenery and weather encourage optimism and big thinking. Yes, I’m aware that people are leaving California these days because of the taxes, and the crime, and the wokeness. I get it. But I can also guarantee you they only do so reluctantly. But let’s set that aside so I can offer my own big takedown of Palm Springs. Ready? Here it comes. Palm Springs would be so much better if it had a bookstore. How can it not have a decent bookstore? That’s my big thinking.
It used to have several used bookstores when we first started coming here a dozen years ago. Over time they have all closed. Now, in the entire Coachella Valley, population 500,000 people, there is one Barnes and Noble and one used bookstore, both a half hour drive from the City of Palm Springs. The used bookstore is almost all paperbacks half of which are Nora Roberts books.
Yes, I’ve heard of Amazon, and I don’t appreciate your sarcastic tone. But old Palm Springs attract billions of wealthy tourists every year many of whom would only be too happy to browse bookstores and drink overpriced coffees while doing so. Done correctly it would make good money. It would also fit perfectly in downtown with the art galleries, sidewalk cafes, and shops featuring crafts from local artisans. But there’s nothing. It’s a book desert in the desert, which is both sad and inconvenient.
The other day I drove to Hemet, which is an hour away, so I could get to Cameron’s Books, where used books fill shelves, hallways, and doorways. Books stare down from any flat surface. They erupt out from the walls forming hummocks and hills which cascade to the floor meaning you must step carefully through the crowded aisles. But there is treasure in that jumble. Note, Palm Springs. You need bookstores. There, I’m done complaining. Besides, I have nothing to complain about. I’m in beautiful Palm Springs! If you’ve not been here, I’ll tell you about it.
There have been people in Palm Springs for at least 2000 years. Not the same people, mind you, though in any given Palm Springs grocery story you can see wizened, cracked leather, chestnut-coloured, vodka-embalmed oldsters with knobby knees and busted knuckles who could pass as partially mummified original settlers.
The first people here left behind petroglyphs and pottery from the time of the birth of Christ. Today, their descendants, the band of Cahuilla Indians known as the Agua Caliente (which means hot water), own a big chunk of Palm Springs. It has worked out very well for them.
Being as perceptive as you are you will infer that ‘hot water’ suggests hot springs. Look at you! Indeed, Palm Springs and the Coachella Valley is an area of geological activity. The famous San Andreas Fault runs perhaps a mile or two north of the city, just across the I-10 highway, and right under the city of Desert Hot Springs.
When you go to see the fault, you can’t see anything, but that’s not your fault. It’s below the surface. Far below your feet one piece of the Earth’s crust slides past another. You wouldn’t want to catch your hand in there. This is what geologists call a slip-strike fault, with half of Desert Hot Springs, and all of Palm Springs, Rancho Mirage, Palm Desert, Indian Wells, much of the Coachella Valley, Los Angeles and southern California moving, more or less, to the southeast and half of Desert Hot Springs and the rest of North America moving northwest. But it’s complicated. Fault line maps show faults running away from the San Andreas like a cracked windshield. Then there is the big San Jacinto fault line. Someday those tectonic plates will shift, and the valley will shudder, and it will be a date no one will forget. The I-10 will buckle and break, swimming pools will slosh, and houses will collapse. But, hopefully, not today because it’s sunny and the golf courses beckon and I want to hike, so we’ll not worry about it.
All of this subsurface activity results in heat that creates hot springs. Palm trees appear in the desert where water follows up through fissures to the surface. Cracks in the driveway must cause Desert Hot Springs homeowners to wonder if their house will soon be featured in dramatic evening news coverage. Yes, to make the obvious pun, the Palm Springs area has its faults.
But it is not just a geological hot spot, it is also a tourism cool spot, Rat Pack cool. It was a go-to place for Hollywood in the 50s and 60s and it has kept the era’s distinctive modernist architecture. Frank Sinatra had a house here, as did Marilyn, Elvis, The Duke, Cary Grant, Liberace and scores more. Hollywood stars still come to Palm Springs. It also has a big gay club scene. It is a busy place, except in the summer when the breath-sucking heat drives away almost all the tourists.
If there is one distinctive type of tourist it is the older, straight man. They are here in the thousands. They are like ants. They are on the golf courses and the hiking trails. They flood the shops and malls. They are the ones with the broad-brimmed hats, knee braces, elbow braces, cargo shorts, and black socks. They come in great herds looking defiant and vaguely angry as they limp along behind their wives down city sidewalks. They should look up occasionally, remember where they are, and smile to see that it is good.