Wherever you go—Squamish or Palm Springs—there you are.
I saw the ad for a Palm Springs getaway. Visit a lush oasis in the California desert?
Why not?
With hopes the trip would rejuvenate me, I put it on my Visa.
I did have a bit of trepidation. Especially the night before.
After all, I do have varicose veins and fear flying, but I considered it now or never.
I booked a room for the night before at an Airport Hotel. I wasn’t going to let any Highway 99 mishap deter my 5.30 a.m. meeting with the travel group at the airport for the next morning’s flight.
I had hoped to have a leisurely float in the pool, but had to squash that dream after sharing the hotel elevator with a boisterous bunch of tween boys in their swimsuits.
I found out there was a high school hockey convention happening that weekend.
I paid almost $300 for a room overlooking the parking lot, between the elevator and kibitzing boys.
On the plane, the flight was better than expected as I sat with lovely companions.
Disembarking at the Palm Springs Airport is magical.
I’d left a chilly rainstorm in Squamish and arrived in a balmy paradise, warm, sunny, azure skies and palm trees.
A shuttle took us to the Palm Mountain Resort and Spa.
It was cosy, half a block from restaurants and shopping and had a 1950s vibe.
I’m shallow enough to admit that I took the celebrity tour. I saw the entry gates of the Rat Pack, and Marilyn Monroe’s former abode. I was disappointed at how truly unassuming their dwellings had been.
I gave up my tour bus seat and discovered that no good deed truly does go unpunished.
The guide’s microphone had broken, and he needed to be in the centre of the bus to be heard.
The seat I took, right behind the driver, was cramped. I’m a short person, so it was OK, except when I got up; I hit my leg. That may have been one reason why my leg swelled up like a balloon that night.
I’d also later walked along a busy street shopping, felt a sharp pain, and saw a golf ball hurtle past onto the road. Another hit?
I nursed my sore and swollen leg all night with cold compresses, thinking that at a certain age, a few taps can turn one black and blue.
I limped on, doing tourist things during the day, and wrapping my aching leg at night.
Some highlights:
•A float in a perfect-temperature pool, gazing upwards at baby-blue skies with a few white wisps of cloud and palm trees.
•I felt glee in seeing an elusive beep-beep road-runner bird scoot by.
•I saw pioneer museums, cacti gardens and visited the Palm Springs art gallery. There is a huge globe of mirrors at the entrance, and when one peers into it, one can see infinity.
Palm Springs is awash in nostalgia.
A couple of blocks from the hotel is the 26-foot statue ‘Forever Marilyn’ by Seward Johnson, depicting her stance over the grate from the 1955 film The Seven Year Itch.
On the last day of the tour, we met at the fire pit by the pool at cocktail hour. There was a draw for parting gifts. I received a non-alcoholic bottle of champagne. I confess to selfishly deciding to take it home for a celebratory drink with friends on my safe return.
I was reluctant to take the bottle in my carry-on bag. It was suggested that I place it in my suitcase with the non-alcoholic label showing for when it would be scanned.
The next morning, imagine my dismay on discovering the empty bottle on its side, had leaked.
All my blouses were sopping wet. I managed to retrieve one to wear on the trip home and was teased for emitting a boozy odour.
Home at last in Squamish, I pulled my suitcase behind me alongside the well-lit highway.
By then, it was 10.30 p.m. and I didn’t want to trouble anyone to pick me up.
Anyway, I had walked that route from the Adventure Centre to my home, many times.
I was congratulating myself for getting to Palm Springs and back, my leg a little sore, but sound, when my suitcase wheels caught on the old train tracks, propelling me forward onto the metal handle right into my rib cage. Oh, No!
I arrived home battered and bruised…beaten but not broken.
Bolstered by the memory. I had been to Palm Springs.
Now, I need to recuperate from my vacation.
Merry Christmas Everyone!
Melody Wales is a Squamish local—her mom started the original Billies flowers—and a veteran writer.
