It was not until I was naked in the hot pool with the minister and his wife
that I began to appreciate the character of the desert. The reverend put it
nicely. Lolling in the steaming water, where his buttocks appeared like two
pale islands, he said: “All sorts of quirky stuff happens here. The desert
is a tolerant place.”
At first glance, the Sonoran desert, in California’s outback, looks a severe
sort of place, with its bleak hallucinogenic landscapes and its cactus
spikes the size of kitchen knives. But the point of deserts is that feeling
of remoteness from the rest of the world. The desert is the destination of
escapists, eccentrics and hedonists. The desert is the place where anything
goes.
Palm Springs has been dealing with anything going for almost a century. In the
early years of Hollywood, location scouts arrived looking for backdrops of
palm trees, desert dunes and the kind of canyons that cowboys liked to
gallop through. The Sheik was shot here, with the smouldering Rudolph
Valentino. Theda Bara, the original screen vamp, minced up and down the Nile
in Palm Springs.
Having come to work, many stars stayed to play. In the days when actors were
under contract, their employers stipulated that they were not allowed to
travel more than two hours from the studios. Two hours brought them to Palm
Springs, which had the added benefit of a perfect climate 10 months of the
year. The desert was an escape from the Hollywood goldfish bowl.
Palm Springs’s Walk of Fame, where the names of resident stars are embedded in
the pavements, runs from Mary Pickford to Chevy Chase and includes Lucille
Ball, Cary Grant, Bob Hope, Clark Gable, Steve McQueen, Doris Day, Catherine
Deneuve and Marlene Dietrich. Greta Garbo came here to be alone.
Marilyn Monroe was allegedly discovered at the Racquet Club, where Spencer
Tracy and Katherine Hepburn conducted their discreet affair. Elvis and
Priscilla had their honeymoon here. Robert Downey Jr was busted here. Frank
Sinatra did it his way in the valley for almost 50 years, with a succession
of wives and not a few of his Rat Pack buddies. He’s buried in the valley
near his former home.
Wedged between the seared flanks of the San Jacinto, the Santa Rosa and the
San Bernardino mountains, the Coachella Valley is a string of exclusive
towns that merge seamlessly into one another – Rancho Mirage, Cathedral
City, Palm Desert, Palm Springs. The latter has managed to give its name to
the whole oasis.
Had you dropped in by parachute, you could be forgiven for not getting the
desert thing. Palm Springs is a resort town, where everyone gets to be the
pampered celebrity. There are things to see – the Joshua Tree National Park,
one of America’s most spectacular landscapes, is a half-hour drive away –
but you don’t come to see things. You come to chill out, to lie round the
pool, to have mud masks smeared over the cheekbones, to take in a leisurely
round of golf.
In such a place, it’s all about the accommodation. The resorts come with high
walls, sprinkler-fed lawns, cabanas with cooling mist sprays and spas where
you’re likely to find Botox injections and breast implants on the treatment
menu. This is holidaying in the upmarket suburbs, a sort of Beverly Hills in
the desert – manicured, neat, orderly and completely stress-free.
If that sounds like a monoculture, it’s not. Everyone wants in on the desert
thing, and Palm Springs has emerged in the new millennium with multiple
identities. Celebrity playground is only the beginning. It runs the gamut
from retirement retreat to nudist colony.
WE’LL GET to the nudity later. Let’s give a moment first to the senior
citizens. They are old people, but not as we know them. Had they retired in
Florida, perhaps they would have settled down to slow decline. Out here in
the desert, though, the old folks come over slightly strange.
Hormone-replaced and Viagra-fuelled, face-lifted and tummy-tucked,
yoga-powered and loaded with a lifetime’s loot, they seem to have got hold
of the idea that retirement is freedom, and it’s time to party.
They even have a show to celebrate their lifestyle. The Palm Springs Follies
is an evening of rollicking vaudeville in which the dance troupe are the
stars. All are professionals who have worked on Broadway, in films and on
television. The youngest of the showgirls is 58, the oldest 84. In feathers
and sequins and leotards, they looked fabulous, though it probably helped
that I was 10 rows back. It probably also helped that Palm Springs is the
cosmetic-surgery capital of the universe, the place where LA matrons come to
lounge round poolside until the bandages come off.
The surprise of Palm Springs, however, is not the vitamin-assisted old people.
It’s everybody else. The OAPs were having such a ball that now all sorts of
people are getting in on it. Golfers come for some of the best courses in
America. Serious shoppers come for the designer boutiques. Spa hounds come
for the mud packs, the celestial showers, the deep-tissue massages. Hikers
come to trek in some of the most exhilarating landscapes this side of the
Grand Canyon.
In January, at the Palm Springs International Film Festival, the celebrity
count soars. In late April, music-heads arrive for the Coachella Valley
Music & Arts Festival, one of the hottest gigs of its kind in
California. In April, the gay community is out in droves for the White
Party.
Nothing says more about Palm Springs’s status than the influx of gay visitors.
In the gay world, where antennae are so acutely tuned to what is hip and
what is not, Palm Springs is a few notches above Barbra Streisand and almost
up there with Kylie Minogue as a cultural icon. There are now more than 40
“gay-friendly” resorts and hotels in the valley.
Perhaps it was they who started the “clothing optional” thing. Palm Springs
has an active sideline in hotels where the guests are able to strip off. I
checked into one with my toothbrush. A part of me was dreading it. I didn’t
mind getting naked, but I wasn’t sure I needed to see a lot of other people
naked. There seems to be a golden rule about naturist resorts: the people
you would like to see naked are never there; the people you don’t want to
see naked are there in droves.
In the end, it was midweek and there was almost nobody there, except the
minister and his wife. In the hot tub, they put me right. It’s all about
body acceptance, the reverend explained.
We don’t judge, we accept. He gave nudity a vaguely spiritual air. It is not
about seeing the body, but about ignoring it and seeing the person.
I was busy ignoring his wife’s free-floating breasts. But I realised he was
right. The desert is about acceptance. From the early shenanigans at the
Racquet Club to the latest spring-break weekends, Palm Springs has always
turned an indulgent eye on its visitors.
— Stanley Stewart travelled to Palm Springs as a guest of British
Airways Holidays
Travel brief
Getting there: British Airways (0844 493 0787, www.ba.com)
flies nonstop from Heathrow to Los Angeles, from £358; as do Virgin Atlantic
(0870 380 2007, www.virgin-atlantic.com),
Delta Air Lines (www.delta.com), United
Airlines (www.unitedairlines.co.uk)
and Air France (www.airfrance.co.uk).
Palm Springs is two hours down the freeway.
Where to stay: the Viceroy (00 1 760-320 4117, www.viceroypalmsprings.com;
doubles from £120) is classic Palm Springs – sophisticated, stylish, cool.
The Hyatt Regency Suites Palm Springs (322 9000, www.hyatt.com;
doubles from £95) is a good choice for families. For a clothing-optional
experience, try the small, friendly Living Waters Spa (329 9988, www.livingwatersspa.com;
doubles from £85), which sits atop a hot mineral spring. If you’re going via
LA, check out the wonderful new Palihouse (00 1 323 656 4100, www.palihouse.com),
in West Hollywood, off Sunset Boulevard; studio suites with kitchen
facilities start at £165.
Tour operators: with British Airways Holidays (0844 493 0758, www.ba.com),
a sevennight fly-drive package to California starts at £1,237pp for July
departures. The price is based on two sharing and includes BA flights from
Heathrow to LA, car hire, two nights at the four-star Fairmont Miramar, in
Santa Monica, and five nights at the five-star Parker Palm Springs. Or try
Virgin Holidays (0871 222 5825, www.virginholidays.co.uk),
Jetsave (0870 160 7324, www.jetsave.co.uk)
or North America Travel Service (0113 243 0000, www.northamericatravelservice.co.uk).
Where to eat: try Copleys (00 1 760-327 9555, www.copleyspalmsprings.com),
set in Cary Grant’s former estate, and Johannes (778 0017, www.johannes-restaurant.com).
At both, main courses start at about £15.
I live in England which is a wet and miserable place to exist. I discovered Palm Springs about 10 years ago and fell in love with the place. I visit most years and would love to live out there when I retire. Fabulous place!
Jon Marshall, Prestbury, UK
Palm Springs is the sunniest city in the US. Holidaymakers love our beautiful town as there is so much to do (or not do and just relax).
For where to stay, things to do, and where to eat, check out the Palm Springs site at http://palmsprings.com
Tom Mulhall, Palm Springs, USA