# 5, Flashback: Palm Springs
ARTIC Station, Anaheim, CA to Downtown Palm Springs, CA — 03.02.16-03.04.16
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Maybe it’s fitting to be writing about a location often cited in pastel-tinted, minimalistic dreams on a day [Easter] characterized by its dalliance in the same. Of course I’m talking Palm Springs, that desert oasis about 100 miles or so east of Los Angeles, and one Amtrak bus ride away from the Fullerton train station.
Back in the day, Palm Springs was where the Hollywood elite would retreat to when overdue for a little r&r; even today, celebrities are said to frequent this small midcentury modern-obsessed town,—not just in nearby Indio during the Coachella music festival—with recent Academy Award winner Leonardo DiCaprio even owning a property there.
I had no real intention of running into Leo while in town, but I can’t deny that that occurrence would have been welcome.
I had been wanting to revisit Palm Springs as an adult for some time; I even began caring less and less if someone joined me. I’m no novice when it comes to solo travel – and venturing only about an hour and a half away from home would be fairly simple, if I could only find a method of getting there.
As a kid, I used to frequent Palm Springs with my family a lot. My father worked trade shows and conventions – he did the driving, the loading in, the setting up, whatever was asked of him, being a union guy and all – and would often work shows at the convention center in Palm Springs. His employer would set him up in an old-school motel, almost always the Royal Sun Inn, complete with the wooden eaves and midcentury trimmings, where we would stay while he worked. We became familiar with the people who owned the property after many weekend stays there, and they would clue us in on what was worth seeing. Mostly we’d spend the day at the pool, but occasionally we’d slip on over to the Living Desert in nearby Palm Desert, or find ourselves walking amongst cacti in the world’s only cactarium at the Moorten Botanical Garden.
The Royal Sun Inn, recently.
After spending 24 hours in Las Vegas by myself last month– another place my family frequented when my father was on business – I began to wonder what it would be like to explore Palm Springs on my own. Travel anxiety likely pushed me to plan this journey in about the same amount of time I did Las Vegas: so in other words, it was last minute.
A little browsing through the Amtrak website revealed that there were daily bus connections to Palm Springs from the Fullerton train station with the purchase of a valid train ticket. Done deal. I purchased an Amtrak ticket out of Anaheim’s new ARTIC station (a metal slug-looking hangar located across from the Honda Center and featured in the second season of True Detective) to Fullerton (only about a ten minute ride via the Pacific Surfliner), where an Amtrak bus would connect to Palm Springs. Roundtrip to and from Palm Springs by way of Amtrak cost $32.00. Affordable.
I missed the 2016 Palm Springs Modernism Week by a couple of days, and Spring Break time by a couple of weeks. This meant room rates were at the lowest they’d be for a while – and I settled on the Riviera Palm Springs, a 1958 midcentury hotel with two pools and low-lying rooms with balconies that overlooked the mountains. Nightly rates were usually triple what I ended up paying.
So even after I found myself panicking when my ten minute train ride ended up running an hour late, I was able to resume my calm when I found that the Amtrak bus had held for that amount of time: I wasn’t the only one who was getting on that bus, after all.
Eventually I was in Palm Springs, dropped off at the low-key downtown Palm Springs bus stop, where I managed to figure out the public transportation system. For $1.00, you can ride the SunLine 111 up and down Palm Canyon and Indian Canyon roads, depending on the direction you’re heading: Palm Springs is pocked with one-way streets, and the road forks into these two just off the main drag. I headed up Indian Canyon towards the Riviera, where I was able to check-in to my room early. It took me five minutes to find my room, peel off my layers of black clothing, and change into my bathing suit before I found myself down at the pool, alone. Already it was worth going.
I headed out to dinner towards sunset, to King’s Highway at the Ace Hotel Palm Springs. I have to admit, it was the slanted ceiling, the leather booths, the mirrored soffits above the bar and the traditional diner aesthetic that brought me there. While the grilled cheese was good (typical diner fare, how can you go wrong?), the tomato soup literally tasted like marinara sauce; and I’ll be the first to say, that yes, I have drank my share of marinara sauce in the past (I’m thinking back to Disneyland’s mozzarella cheese sticks) – this time, however, it was too much. I needed a drink.
The Amigo Room, the Ace Hotel’s signature bar, is located a hallway away, so I stopped in and ordered a Desert Facial to recuperate.
The Ace Hotel’s Desert Facial: Vodka, muddled cucumber and mint, with fresh pineapple juice.
The Desert Facial did the trick. I was buzzed enough to walk the property, and emboldened enough to walk the full distance back to my hotel – that is, a three and a half mile walk. The lack of street lights made the stars easily viewable, and the trek along the dark storefronts more palatable.
I stopped off at Mr. Lyons Steakhouse along the way and sat at a booth tucked in the bar portion of the restaurant. Gin and tonic sat to my left while I scribbled some observations in my notebook.
My coworker has been on me to write in real-time, to post when I’m away; this proves difficult – there isn’t always Wi-Fi, or an opportunity to step away from the present. It can be hard to stand a few feet away when I’m still there, laughing, breathing, taking in the piss from the current. I have to let it gestate a little before I can present an accurate representation of my experience; and so, I will sometimes write in a notebook and look back at the incomplete – and often inconsistent – thoughts of a girl running away from home upon my return. Sometimes the musings are only about how great an album ‘Pinkerton’ is.
But I digress.
The atmosphere at Mr. Lyons is laid-back cool, kind of like drinking in a cellar with strangers. The busser there would remember me during brunch the next morning, at a different restaurant entirely; embarrassingly, he’d ask how the beignets were. They were good.
My feet are thrashed by the time I make it back to my room, late. Television is dull in Palm Springs. ‘Pinkerton’ is a good album.
The next morning I sleep in because no one is waiting on me. I head down to Cheeky’s where I have the best chilaquiles of my life. Freshly squeezed blood orange juice, coffee, and a waffle with sea salted butter round out the meal. I find second-hand stores ranging in clothing to furniture to glassware nearby, and spend the afternoon perusing. It proves hard to resist a pair of Playboy denim pants, but resist I do.
I took the 111 down to a strip mall where Over the Rainbow Cupcakes and Desserts had a few remaining chocolate peanut butter salted caramel cupcakes remaining. It is the most delectable and decadent cupcake I’ve probably ever eaten: an indulgent chocolate cake with a peanut butter center, vanilla frosting, and caramelized peanuts on top. Occasionally Over the Rainbow even produces marbleized rainbow cake slices; during my visit, the chocolate peanut butter cupcake is more than enough.
Across the street from the strip mall is The Saguaro, a hotel complex with colorful balconies and lavish pool parties. El Jefe, the tequila bar inside the compound, is empty and running a special on well drinks when I walk through. I order a Salty dog and elote that costs more than my drink. The free shuttle service that runs the same route as the 111 Thursday through Sunday runs me back up to downtown, where I get off at the Hard Rock Hotel and mosey on over to the Palm Springs Art Museum Architecture and Design Center, which is free after 4pm on Thursdays. They have an interesting Bauhaus photo collective running until May which divulges how Bauhaus architecture has inspired and nurtured current day design.
Not too far away is the Palm Springs Art Museum (also free after 4pm on Thursdays); it takes longer than expected to walk there because Thursday means street fair and tchotchkes and elbow to elbow hoards. Funny how quiet and empty Palm Springs can seem during the day, until Thursday rolls around, the street closes, and vendors set up shop.
The street fair is also likely the reason for my terrible experience with the free shuttle service. I barely missed the previous shuttle, and reasoned to just wait the approximated fifteen minutes for the next one; that fifteen minutes eclipsed into thirty-five, and the line of people behind me grew exponentially. Finally, the shuttle arrived, already half-full. I was pushed out of the way by older couples, to the very back of the line! And even though I had been waiting since the last shuttle, I was denied a ride. There was no more room on board for even a single body.
I was livid. I was upset. I should have just taken the 111. I walked faster than the shuttle could go to the nearest SunLine 111 stop, and hopped on board.
When I finally made it back to my hotel, I headed down to the pool immediately, hoping to cleanse the frustration from my body. It worked out: I had the pool to myself; a fire pit to myself. And when I decided to go out to dinner, an Uber driver to myself.
When I travel, I really enjoy the aspect of immersing myself in that location. If I can, I’ll avoid renting a car, or relying on private drivers. You can understand a lot about a place based on its ease of transportation, and the stigma surrounding it. On several occasions, I had locals and snow birds alike tsk me about taking the public bus throughout Palm Springs – hell, they didn’t even know that the SunLine 111 ran north and south.
In any case, I called an Uber to take me to dinner at a place considered a Palm Springs staple: Melvyn’s. I ended up having an experience I’d rather not relive, with a wait staff who pushed me to sit at the bar near the dance floor, at a cocktail table too small to hold an appetizer platter. The fries were decent, the tiramisu too sour to consume. It really bummed me out to have such a lackluster experience, as I read up on the restaurant’s early history as an invite-only inn to the stars prior to arriving.
From there, I headed back to downtown, to Bootlegger Tiki. I sat at the bar and sipped a drink called Coffee and Cigarettes. I probably needed a cigarette at that moment, even though I have never been a smoker. I scribbled more thoughts in my notebook, under the red neon of the bar top and the scrutinizing gaze of the barkeep who probably wondered if I was going to order another drink or keep writing. How much would I tip him, if at all? Did you know ‘Pinkerton’ is still pretty good?
I wandered back to the hotel by foot.
The next morning I’d end up at the same low-key downtown bus stop where the Amtrak bus dropped me off, and I’d head back to Fullerton, and then back to Anaheim. I wouldn’t go home, just continue on straight to work. Continue on without the same travel anxiety with which I fled to Palm Springs.
Room with a view.
novelty grrrl 