Palm Springs Getaway

As our Big Adventure was winding down, I comforted myself by making a list of places I still wanted to visit in future travels. Feeling that I have gotten my temporary fill of far-flung exotic locales, my list leans a bit toward things close to home that I have never seen (but probably should have by now). Places like the Grand Canyon, New Mexico, Alberta, and the California desert. Now, having spent a weekend in Palm Springs, I have crossed the latter off my list. I can’t say I’m satisfied, though. Partly, it’s because of the ordeal we went through to get there, and partly, what I really meant by “California desert” is wilderness — and Palm Springs is not wilderness.

The town itself is fine: A few main streets filled with hotels, restaurants, and stores, surrounded on all sides by brown rocky hills and the namesake scruffy palm trees. In one of life’s great mysteries, one of the hottest, driest places in the world is also home to a number of golf courses. Why there can’t be golf courses in places that are already damp and fertile is beyond me. Okay, it’s not really that far beyond me  — I know the old folks like to be warm and play golf at the same time. But really?

Anyway, we were in Palm Springs for the very special occasion of our friend Erik’s wedding, which took place on a Friday evening at 7 p.m. at the stylish Parker Hotel.

While it was hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk during the day, 7 p.m. turned out to be the ideal time for an outdoor wedding. The ceremony took place on the croquet lawn, where the guests were seated in a circle around the groom and groom while — no joke — butterflies and hummingbirds flitted around. It was a very sweet and touching ceremony, followed by dinner, drinks, and dancing in a nearby ballroom.

The next day, a dream that I held as a 10-year-old girl came true. Back then (1988, but who’s keeping track), I had an enormous crush on Olympic diver Greg Louganis. I was a naive 10-year-old, you see, and had no inkling that Mr. Louganis would not ever be the least bit interested in me (alas, I learned this when I was 11). I would have died and gone to heaven if I’d had the chance to meet him, much less hang out poolside with him.

Fast forward 23 years, and Pierre and I are hanging out at the Parker pool with Erik, his new husband, and several other wedding guests. I go to talk to Erik, who’s chatting with a couple of guys sharing a chair by the pool. One of these guys looks remarkably like Greg Louganis, but I berate myself for assuming that just because this man is chiseled, gorgeous, and gay, he must be Louganis. So I compliment him and his boyfriend on their pedicures, shoot the shit for a few minutes, and move along. But it turns out, it was him! And was I gutsy enough to go up to him when I realized who it was and ask for a picture? No! I wasn’t. Dang it. All we got was this, but trust us, Greg is back there somewhere:

Later that evening, we visited with the grooms and their families at a barbecue at their place. As the evening wound down, we said our final congratulations and headed back to the hotel to prepare for our early morning flight home (which, amazingly enough, went off without a hitch). It was a lovely weekend celebrating a terrific couple. But I still want to go back and see more of that desert.