Trigger alert: racism, agism, whining and anti-Canadianism follows.
Palm Springs of course.
My well cultivated stereotype cast Palm Springs as the place where aging jews and fabulous gays came together in Alexander houses for cocktails. They would toast with vintage glassware while floating beside reflection of mountains and palms in crystal clear pools. As it turns out that is only part of the picture.
Palm Springs has been one of my core Zillow searches for years, and I always imagined Steve and I would split our time between Palm Springs and Vermont once the boys had left the house. These communities are a natural pairing if there ever was one. As it turns out Palm Springs is still in California just as Austin is still in Texas. There are overly wide roads and unwalkable neighborhoods. Despite perfect weather and scenery it didn’t feel like a vacation spot. Or a vacation. This was partly our fault we brought the dog. I also shoehorned 17 houses viewings into 8 hours. More on that later.
Our room featured a patio with a soaring canvas shelter and built in banquets large enough to use as kid mattresses (which we did.) In the corner sat a potted palm large enough for the dog to be placed in to pee. After I got over worrying about palm death I found it pretty entertaining.
When we arrived the vintage vinyl was propped on the floor and our small dog was easily able to demonstrate his racism by barking his tiny head off at the lovely lady who was in the front of the pile. In case you were wondering the dog lost the staring contest.
The Ace features excellent fish tacos that you can eat in your room, on your patio, and in the pool. Not beside the pool. In the pool. If you bring your small shivering dog to sit by the hot tub a nice staff member will ply him with water and treats for him to ignore. The lifeguard will then invite the dog to join your boys in the pool. Even though that got him closer to the fish tacos the dog did not thing that was an excellent idea. He ended up clawing his way to safety looking even more like a wet wingless bat than usual. Watching him struggle is possibly more entertaining than trapping the dog in the potted patio palm. Its close though.
While my family was alternatively enjoying and not enjoying the pool and unanimously enjoying french fries I was having my mind blown by midcentury architecture and furniture. It was so incredible that I actually stopped talking.
My house tour was led by Ty and Todd. They seemed inured to the spectacle of mid century architecture that surrounded them. In fact the two were unflappable. Incorrect entry codes, yapping dogs, and late listing agents left them as pristine as their perfectly pressed shirts. The only thing that made them mad? Canadians.
Zooming at 55 down 6 lane highways that connected tiny charming neighborhoods they complained loudly about ever having to tap on the brakes. Each time a car slowed one or the other of them would mutter “Damn Canadians.” In a land of retirees I wondered how they knew that the lead feet came from our northern neighbors but they seemed convinced. So I took their word for it.
That night the family (including dog) went “downtown” for dinner. The weather was of course perfect and we found an outdoor patio that accepted us and our pooch. Beloved by retirees and gay men alike small dogs abound in Palm Springs. That is until we met Brutus, or Butch, or whatever his big name was. No joke our dog was the size of his nose. Which twitched with the possibility of a snack as we held them close for a greeting. In the photo you can sort of see Apollo sporting his faux burberry halter. We snagged that beauty at the local small dog shop. It was tough to find amongst the bling of the bedazzled collars and sweaters (the only beasts who wear sweaters in Palm Springs are dogs like ours who pretty much shiver in any climate and should not technically exist.) I’m pretty sure he hated it as much as the pool, but we wrestled it onto him nonetheless. After our big night of dinner, dog shopping, and dog sniffing we decided to look for some ice cream. Just as we crossed the street there was the blaring of horns and screeching of brakes.
Looking over at the near accident I muttered without thought: “damn Canadians.” We might not be destined to live in Palm Springs, but at least I learned how to talk like a local.