My friends have been raving about Palm Springs for years. They always return with glowing tans and renewed joie de vivre. Secretly, I always thought of Palm Springs as a retirement community. Sure, Frank Sinatra had an estate there. Yes, Bob Hope was the honorary mayor.
But those facts only seemed to reinforce my bias. Recently, I decided to check out the desert town for myself after I came across a hotel steal. We compromised and signed up for one night of each. Getting there is easy. Fly into the Palm Springs airport or drive the hundred miles from L. If you're driving, there are two stops I'd recommend.
Pull off the freeway for lunch at In-N-Out Burger. We hit the road, and after indulging in fast food and designer deals, we arrived at the Parker Palm Springs. It's as if the stark entrance is a visual palate cleanser preparing visitors for the world you are about to enter.
Medieval suits of armor stand guard in the lobby. The interior design is a bonanza of country club, Moroccan, and retro vibes. The hotel guests are characters too. I had high hopes of exploring Palm Springs' art galleries and taking the aerial tramway , but I had a hard time leaving the property. There were just too many relaxing things to cram in! Poolside lounge chairs fill early with pregnant models and pilates-toned men.
Hollywood agents hit up the clay tennis courts. In the afternoon, couples sip Pastis and play Petanque as if they are in Provence. Those who grab a casual bite in town come back afterwards to roast marshmallows around the outdoor fire pits.
