The people who live here year-round have also always struck me as remarkably incongruous. When I went to the supermarket, several employees in different parts of the store stopped to say hello and to ask me if I was finding everything. I almost felt bad that I was. Perhaps I should make something up? "Where can I find the wasabi paste?" Later that same day, I encountered a woman at the gym who could have been my grandmother. Did I have time to help her with some yoga stretches? I really didn't. "That's okay, dear," she said. "You have a nice day." I carried my guilt next door to Starbucks, where I noticed a man with a parrot perched on the edge of his chair. Every passerby drew the same astute observation from the parrot, which stated, quite articulately, "There's a bird."
To me, the endless appeal of Palm Springs lies in this intersection of fantasy and reality, this dimension of offbeat fun and glamour that seduces me and draws me back to this strange oasis in the middle of the desert. I come back to Palm Springs because in the middle of February it's 80 degrees here and there's a foot of snow in New York. I come back because the sprinklers go on by themselves at odd times of day and instead of jumping out of their path, I run through them like a child. I come back because this place brings me a sense of calm that I can't seem to find anywhere else. Restored and reinvented, I'm glamorous once again.
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