A place of one's own

At year's end 2005, I became a nomad. I've stayed in hotels, guest houses, hostels, inns, private homes, and occasionally more exotic places. Seven years and twenty-five countries later, I am happy to report I have moved to a place. I arrived in Palm Springs six months ago. I moved into a fully furnished apartment on a month-to-month basis and put my belongings into storage. The original plan was to stay there through the tourist season and then find more permanent digs.

Last month, I found out my landlord was going to list the apartment. Not wanting to live in real estate limbo with a flow of unexpected guests traipsing through my space, I started looking for an apartment. I set the bar pretty high: mid-century, small building with character, quiet neighborhood, good light, and affordable.

At Palm Springs Pride, I ran into Alan and Norman, a couple I had met around town at various functions. I knew they owned a building. I didn't know where it was, or anything about it, but I mentioned to them I was looking for a place. They said there might be a unit opening up in their building. I won't go into the dramatic details here of how the unit became available, but suffice to say, it did. Today, I unpacked the last box and finished hanging all but a few pieces of art. What a treat to have all my stuff in one place, a place I enjoy being in, that has my name on the lease. And such a charming place: mid-century, small building with character, quiet neighborhood, good light, and affordable.

For three years before moving to Palm Springs, I lived in Sarasota, Florida in my cousin's guest house. I will never live in a more beautiful setting. As welcomed as I was, however, I was a guest. I loved the Palladian style villeta where I stayed, but it was my cousin's home.

Although I have been here for less than a week, I feel like I am home, surrounded by treasures accumulated over the years in my travels, admiring art and photography executed by people I love. I don't put much stock in the notion of permanence, nor do I have much experience of it. For however long it lasts, it it is comforting to have a base. So far, I have enjoyed my visit here in Palm Springs. I am beginning to think it is a nice place to live.

A Meditation on Pi

The closest I ever got to a tiger, Cambodia, 2007

I saw The Life of Pi on Sunday. I have not read the book on which it is based. I was immediately impressed by the visual beauty of every frame, the performance of Suraj Sharma, the young actor who plays Pi as a teenager, and how the story is such a perfect allegory about my personal experience of the spiritual journey.

In the days since, the end of the movie keeps coming back to me. I am astounded at how my life, like the lives of many companions, parallels the movie. And the ending haunts me.

You may well ask why, after of two hours of the psychedelic beauty of a pilgrim's progress on the high seas with a Bengal tiger, I was most moved by the scenes in the kitchen between the young writer and the middle aged Pi? The answer, as best I can formulate it, is that I know the heartbreaking challenge of putting together a life after you get off the boat and Richard Parker disappears back into the forest.

The light here is transcendent

The adult Pi, not an ancient seer but a middle-aged man, is played brilliantly by Irrfan Khan. At the beginning of the film he tells the writer that he will tell him his story, and the story will make the writer believe in God. Thus begins the stunning and terrible journey of the younger Pi. He is torn from his home, loses his family in a shipwreck where he and a few animals are the sole survivors, and endures over a year drifting on a tiny raft, attached to a lifeboat, inhabited by a Bengal Tiger that was once in his family's zoo.

Ang Lee magnificently recreates that wondrous tale in awe inspiring 3D images narrated by both the adult Pi and his younger self. Richard Parker, the tiger is a CGI evocation of divine force. It is a story of heartbreak, despair, thrilling adventure, and unspeakable beauty that ends in a suburban kitchen in Toronto. With a family, and a teaching position, and maple cabinets, and a deep sadness in the eyes.

On the Lyken Trail, late afternoon

The young Pi was fascinated by religions. Born a Hindu, he studied and embraced all faiths much to the exasperation of his father. He seeks to understand the soul in everything including the tiger Richard Parker in his zoo. When he is torn from everything safe and familiar and thrown into the ocean with a life-threatening companion that would have no compunction about devouring Pi. For a year they ride the high seas and Pi experiences the wonder, awe, terror, fear, beauty, despair, ecstasy, surrender, and finally, love. With side servings of sharks, storms, and immense physical suffering.

Miracle of miracles they eventually make land in Mexico. They get off the boat. Richard Parker walks into the jungle. He doesn't look back. He doesn't say goodbye. Pi goes on to create a life for himself in the real world. There is no witness to his incredible journey or his companion. And as seemingly benign and comfortable as that life is, there is no Richard Parker. Talk to Leda after the swan left. Or Ganymede after the eagle flew off. Anyone who has been touched by a god knows how Pi felt – but they can't explain it. You have to go there.

I am many years older than Pi. My dance with the tiger went on for over two decades. SInce the tiger walked back into the jungle, I have constructed (or let manifest) a comfortable, somewhat adventurous life. A lot of running around attempting to solve the conundrum, what do you do with the rest of the day? After the tiger goes back into the jungle.

The day after tomorrow I move into a new apartment here in Palm Springs. I am quite happy with the space and am looking forward to unpacking my things, at this point mostly art, and souvenirs from my travels. I will continue my efforts to manifest an interesting and sustainable life. In the absence of the tiger.

There are some people out there that know exactly what I am crypto-babbling about. I understand if you don't understand, or care to. The thing about dancing with a tiger is you and the tiger are the only ones who know what it's like or if it even happened. You can't properly put it into words, and the tiger walked back into the jungle never to be witnessed.  

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A few visual non sequiturs to close out the post, and an invitation to visit my facebook page (Like me, really like me) and my new website promoting my latest efforts to manifest an interesting and sustainable life.

A little shameless self-promotion

Malificent and the monster - Halloween on Arenas Road

Two months and no blog entries. What have I been up to?

Well, I've been dealing with my living situation for one thing. The condo I've been renting is going on the market so it's time to find more permanent digs where I can get my things out of storage and create my own space. Knock on wood, I found a lovely one-bedroom apartment in the Smoke Tree area of Palm Springs that is not in walking distance of the touristy part of Palm Springs, but very convenient to everything else. God willing, and if the creek don't rise, I'll be in the new place by the 15th of December. It will be good to have my stuff around me again.

Palm Springs Pride, 2012

I've also been wrestling with a few angels.

Another chapter missing from the non-existent Dummy's Guide to Subsistence Retirement is the answer to the age-old question, "what do you do with the rest of the day?" Truth be told, I'm getting a little bored with retirement and I could definitely use some additional income. My current cash flow covers the basics, but there's little left over to feed my travel addiction.

Doug Graham and Charles Herrera in Gender Benders at
Azul

This move, and the unplanned expense of a new car will just about deplete my mad money fund. In Sarasota, I was fortunate enough to pick-up the occasional freelance job doing computer tutoring, and writing. I'm hoping to do the same here while throwing photography and event planning into the mix. I am presenting myself as a digital scribe. To quote from my website: Throughout the centuries, scribes have provided a menu of services for those wishing to communicate effectively: writing, editing, and illuminating manuscripts, painting a portrait to send to a potential suitor, arranging celebrations. The the artist, the scrivener, the cloistered monk, the master of revels, the jongleur – all served an important role in their time – to help people present themselves and their ideas in the best possible light.

I have done event planning throughout my career. I've done trade shows, industrial shows, customer events, incentive meetings, parties, and even weddings.

I've been doing photography for years for my own enjoyment but lately I've done some event and performance photos that turned out well enough that I want to explore doing some work professionally.

Jerome Elliott in Standing on Ceremony,
The Gay Marriage Plays

Toward that end, I've created a website TCB Digital, that offers a few samples of my work and links to several other examples on the Internet. I've been accused of not being very good at putting myself out there, and I have always been more comfortable promoting others than myself. So, against my nature, I'm throwing it out to the universe - and anyone who reads this - that I am a digital scribe available for hire. In addition to the website, I've created a page on Facebook and have revamped my Smugmug site for people who might be interested in my photographic skills.

Does this mean that Wanderlust is going away? I don't think so. I hope it will evolve into a complement to my other ventures in communicating on the Internet. If you have some free time, I hope you'll check out my website. And, of course, should you need the services of a digital scribe, I hope you'll keep me in mind.

Our Town Part 1

Even a date milk shake from Shields
can't relieve the heat

Palm Springs in summer, especially August, is the best of times and the worst of times. It's the best time to get to know the area. The crowds are down, the locals take advantage of off-season prices in restaurants and clubs that are crowded with season people during the winter months. The local entertainment scene, which is considerable, is in full flower.

And then, there's the heat. You expect that in the summer in the desert. You expect a dry desert heat. This summer, my first summer living here, we've been treated to our own variation of climate change. The locals call it the monsoon, not because it rains, but because of the high humidity. It's normal to have several days of monsoon conditions in July and August. This year, however, we've had week after week of monsoon conditions. The kind of weather where you break into a sweat standing still outside (and standing still is about all you have energy for). At first, I would push through repeating to myself my mantra.,"It's better than being cold. It's better than being cold." As the weeks have worn on and the humidity has persisted, I have decided that travel during the hot months is a good idea in the future – and now I have a new car in which to travel.

The Yellow Mart in Indio which has
nothing whatsoever to do with this post.

Two weeks ago my car was stolen. My 2002, trouble from almost the first day I bought it used when I came back to the States three years ago, Chrysler Sebring was taken from the secured parking area of my building. The blue book value of the car was such that I carried minimal insurance required by law which translated to zero dollars in compensation. To add insult to injury, the kind people who relieved me of my burden, abandoned the car 5 days later having removed every scrap of anything from the interior and trashed the engine. So I had to pay to have the car towed back to Palm Springs. They took the registration too, so I had to deal with that as well.

I call it iCar

It's a cruel wind that blows no good, as they say, and this hot desert gust swept a bit of karma along with it. They found a letter addressed to in the suspected perpetrator's double wide next to the meth cooker (OK, I made up the meth cooker part. I've been watching too much Breaking Bad). That led them to me and my car and evidence they needed to press charges against the miscreants. Now, here's my soap box: Every law enforcement person with whom I interacted was pleasant, professional, courteous, and uncommonly good looking (I think they must hire from Central Casting). Every day in the media I read unsavory accounts of misdeeds by the police but that is polar opposite of my experience. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Another sunset, another show

Occupying the secured parking space where once dwelt the Sebring, is a brand spanking new, white Hyudai Accent SE hatchback that drives like a sports car, comes geeked out with bluetooth, USB ports, XM radio (for which I have yet to see the point), and Eco shift. It gets 30 mpg in town, 40 hwy. It also has a brand spanking new LoJack installed. Definitely not in the short-term financial plan, but provided for thanks in part to my decision to euthanize Ondasia. 

It's the first day of autumn as I finally finish this entry. It's still hot, but the evenings are cool enough now that walking is possible. I feel like I've zeroed out here in Palm Springs. Not exactly starting over, but starting fresh. Next step? Stay tuned. I'm as curious as anyone about what slings and arrows outrageous fortune has in store.

Sometimes the magic works...

So, I had this idea.

Before Palm Springs, before Sarasota, I spent three years on the road, most of the time in Asia. I fell in love with so much of Asian culture. Again and again, in China, Thailand, Myanmar, Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam, I was seduced by the home furnishings I saw in markets there – fabrics, lacquerware, decorative arts, and furniture. I saw hand-made, expertly-crafted, beautiful objects that would enhance any home (and brought home what I could given my gypsy status). Everywhere I saw things that I truly believed would sell in the US, especially the west coast.

When I was teaching in Chiang Mai Thailand, I had the opportunity to explore the woodcraft villages near where I was teaching. There, local craftsman produce a range of items ranging from back scratchers to dining tables. The styles range from traditional Thai, to sleek contemporary. There is also a huge inventory of Chinese antiques that entered the country fleeing the onslaught of the Three Gorges Damn.

Made in Phuket, Thailand

When I returned to the States in 2009, I parked my memories of the markets of Asia on my hard drive. I decorated my quarters with my souvenirs, and worked on building a post-travel, post-retirement life in Sarasota Florida, an environment that was unfamiliar to me. I have written enough about that chapter for now, but when it became clear that I would be leaving Sarasota and returning to California, I revisited those Asian markets in my memory bank and was captured by the idea of starting a business importing the things I fell in love with on my travels.

I won't bore you with the iterations and mash-ups the idea went through. Looking back, I think I was envisioning  a desert cities Gumps, and I truly believed I could find a sustainable niche in the California marketplace that would provide a modest income, pay for my travel back and forth to the countries I still carry in my consciousness, and introduce hand-crafted things of beauty to the American home (well, for the higher end American homes).

After much winnowing and some research, after socializing the idea to as wide an audience as I felt I could impose upon with my pitch, I refined the idea to hand-crafted, contemporary, Asian furnishings. Pieces that would look understatedly fabulous in the mid-century and contemporary manses of the Coachella Valley. Sleek contemporary designs executed in teak, rosewood, rattan, hibiscus grass, and stainless steel. Designs that echo Russell Wright, the Knoll catalog, with a soupçon  of Michael Graves. Craftsmanship is of the highest-quality. I was energized.

Hand-crafted, Asian, Contemporary

My soul-buddy, Jot, came up with a name. I designed a logo. I identified possible locations for a to-the-trade warehouse store in the right area, I gathered images for presentations, even contacted a few of the craftsmen (who now have a web presence)  to find out if they had distribution in North America.

Fiery clouds and lots of smoke,
a most unusual Palm Springs sunset

And then,  I did the business plan. It was an onerous task. I downloaded a template from the web, wrote mission statements and marketing strategies. I revisited my corporate communicator mode. I booked an appointment with a consultant from SCORE, the organization of retired business professionals affiliated with SBA. The consultant, a woman smack-dab in the middle of my target demographic, asked tough questions, shared valuable insights, and moved from skepticism to cautious enthusiasm during the course of our meeting. She assigned me a task: do a 12-month cost/income projection, something I knew I needed to do but had been putting off.

The organic rubber met the road. The That fighting cocks came home to roost. The proof wasn't in the pudding. The idea did not hold up financially. At the end of the first year, if everything went in my favor, it might pay expenses but there would be no surplus to provide additional income for personnel, or me, or pay back an investor (which I knew I needed). Not what I had in mind. Sometimes the magic works, and sometimes it doesn't. Perhaps, in a parallel universe, I am preparing for the opening. Not important.

The move to Palm Springs still feels right. I am happy to be back in California among fruit and nuts. I am curious about what's in store for me personally and for our troubled species. I'll probably continue to blog about it.

Our Town: Preface

The San Jacinto Mountains from my balcony.

Those of you who have followed my wanderings know that I recently moved to Palm Springs after visiting here twice in the last year. Even though I had heard about 'other the desert cities' I really didn't know much about any of them except for names and decades old short visits. I knew Palm Springs only a little better.

I've been here two months now. I have come to realize, much to my surprise and so far my delight, the Coachella Valley is a rich and varied landscape. Wonderland. Oz. Candyland.  Lost boys. munchicans, amazons, and more queens and fairy princesses than you can count. And that's just Palm Springs.

It's called a cenotaph. I know why the last
three names appear on the stone,
but the others?

I'm told the cathedral in Cathedral City next door is a reference to the San Jacinto mountains. There's no cathedral, but there's Trader Joe's and Target and it's only 10 minutes from where I live on the edge of Warm Sands (subject of future posts). It has a lot of good local restaurants and uni-culture and box stores. Long-time locals call it Cat City. Depending on who you ask it's either short for cathedral or an acknowledgement of its reputation as a den of iniquity in the 19th century, and as a haven for speakeasies in the 1920s. Several entertainment celebrities are buried in two cemeteries here.

Rancho Mirage, the next town East on Palm Canyon Drive, would feel familiar to people who have lived or visited the San Gabriel Valley area of Los Angeles. Upper middle-class strip and outdoor malls. There's more to it than that, but I haven't done much in those parts yet. There's a Cheesecake Factory. I've actually eaten there twice. Those of you who know my history know that I enjoyed a special time there in a past life and lived to not write about it.

White Water Preserve. an honest-to-god oasis
twenty minutes from downtown.

The desert city that intrigues me the most, aside from Palm Springs, is Indian Wells. Have you ever driven down an avenue in a strange city and known instantly you are in "that" part of town? River Oaks in Houston, Bronxville NY, Sea Cliff in San Francisco.

No stores, no advertising, no mac-mansions – driving through Indian Wells on route 111 all you really see are walls and manicured palm trees punctuated by conspicuously understated gated entrances. The road is noticeably better-paved, the trees better tended, the walls pristine and luxuriantly planted. Bill Gates has a place here and "lots of other famous people," or so I'm told. I doubt I'll be attending many dinners there.

★★★

It's taken me a week to get this much down in a post. I've been wrestling with a decision and haven't been inspired to do much blogging. It's little more than a Trip Advisor review. I'll try to do better in future posts. I may also be inspired to write more about the decision.

The windmills of my mind have been working
overtime lately

For now, I'll share that, like most people who have reached the so-called retirement years, I've been looking for a hook for this next act. I'm sixty-seven now. I haven't found the idiot's guide to subsistance retirement living yet, so I'm trying to get in touch with what I want to manifest for this next stage. I've been putting a fair amount of energy into trying to manifest an idea I had for an import business. Unfortunately, the numbers just don't add up. So, unless deus ex machinas with a direct order and a check, I have decided it's time to explore other possibilities.

The photos included have only peripheral relationship to the text.

There and Back

Marta Cormier with granddaughters Sophia (c)
and Bea at Betty's Take out in Berkeley

It's been a month since the last post. I didn't blog because I wasn't traveling. On this last trip however, I realized that I am now living in a very distinctive place that deserves to be written about. First, a few words about this last trip.

The day before my birthday I drove to the east bay area of San Francisco on a partially planned road trip. I lived in the Walnut Creek - Lafayette area for a total of 13 years. It's familiar turf, but as with everything else these days, unexpected things happened when I went back to visit. A serendipitous invitation from a dear friend in Tarzana added an additional two-day stopover on may way back to Palm Springs at a paradisiacal oasis in the Dantean inferno of Los Angeles. But I am getting ahead of myself.

At the Temescal Street Festival

After a scenic drive through the high desert, I hit Interstate 5 at Gorman near the peak of the grapevine. From there it was a straight, not very visual, shot to the Tracy exit where I took 580 and then 680 to Walnut Creek.

I spent my 67th birthday eve and day wallowing in blissful companionship with long-time friends. I'd say old friends, but I don't think any of us know what to do with the word "old," much less the age demographic. We ate good, delicious food (a lot healthier than the sybaritic feasts of our younger days), drank vintage wine (a lot less than the sybaritic feasts of our younger days), and engaged in the kind of conversation you have with people you've shared peak experiences with. Past memories mingle with current events and conjectures about the future. Even though our paths have diverged in the woods of life somewhat, we share a spiritual grounding and genuine heart connection.

Escott Jones, cabinet maker, designer,
egg carver, renaissance man.

The actual birth anniversary day was a moveable feast  of friends and food culminating in fireworks in honor of the country with which I share the tradition.

The week past with people and things left for next time, always a good sign. I enjoyed some quality city time, and discovered  a new (to me) restaurant in Rockridge, Sommerset's. Two serendipitous events were an unexpected bonus.  I had dinner with a young woman I've know since she was twelve who is now a successful rep for a distinguished furniture line with a showroom in the SF Design Center. She was a fountain of constructive feedback and ideas about the viability of the idea. And she is as lively and engaging as he was at twelve, only more so.

Outside these gardens are the seven circles
of hell, but inside it's Il Paradiso

I also met a true bohemian craftsman-artist-radio engineer who restores carousels and carves eggs among many other fascinating activities. He too was helpful about the business idea when we weren't sidetracked by shared recollections of our salad days.

My drive to Tarzana was smooth, punctuated by my nearly traditional lunch at Harris Ranch. I spent four days in the home of a dear firend who has created a paradisiacal oasis in the Los Angelian dystopia. Imagine a Souzhou garden designed by Frida Kahlo and you might have some idea what a special place this is. We ventured out for a few meals and to catch Moonrise Kingdom (highly recommended), but mostly we luxuriated in the garden, in the pool, or on the verands playing Scrabble.

Imagine a Chinese garden designed by Frida Kahlo

After ten days out, I was actually starting to miss Palm Springs, even with the triple digit temperature. The longer I am here in the desert cities, the more I realize what a fascinating and diverse place it is. I'll write more about that in future posts, but now I have to get back to slogging through creating a business plan. There are more pictures from my trip on my Facebook page if you are interested.

Settling in – 2

Spoiler alert: no photos.

Spoiler alert: introspection and rambling.

I was going to title this post "Coping," but I reconsidered. Although coping appears to be the human condition at the moment. Many people around me are dealing with loss – terrible, painful issues concerning health, finances, loved ones, all of the above, some of the above. Others are dealing with the problems of excess: the Palm Desert house still isn't finished. The remodel is over budget. The Mercedes is on back order (there is a lot of money in he Coachella Valley). The kind of problems we all say we wish we had.

I would be a hopeless kvetch to describe my current situation as coping. A more apt description – and more challenging for me personally – is "being patient."

At the invitation of dear friends I drove to Los Angeles on Thursday to house sit their lovely mansionette in Chatsworth, a suburb of Los Angeles in the San Fernando Valley. It was a perfect opportunity for me to do some research on my business idea. As an added bonus, I was going to reward myself with a visit to the Getty Museum for yet more stunning blog photos. (I have low expectations for the art in the museum. It is the Getty, after all, but the building and grounds are reputed to be muy photo worthy.)

Friday morning, after seeing off my hosts who were driving to Santa Cruz to see their son graduate magna cum laude and cum laude – in a double major, no less – I took off in my car. My plan was to check out shops in Santa Monica and go the Getty.

It was 9:30 in the morning. Even with Friday rush hour, I gave myself until 2:30 PM to get to The Getty to wait out rush hour. Life was an adventure. I was revisiting old territory with a new perspective. I lived here for six years from 1988 to 1994. Banished was my conviction that LA is all seven circles of Dante's Inferno.

For about 15 minutes, I was able to maintain that illusion. And then I hit traffic. And stayed in traffic. Clogged traffic. On the freeway. On side streets. Everywhere. By the time I had finished in Santa Monica it was already 2:30 and I had done about an hour of shopping against 4 hours of sitting in traffic. It turned out I couldn't get to the Getty because both the main off ramp and the detour they directed me to were blocked. I made the twenty minute drive back to where I was staying in a little over an hour, stopped by Trader Joe's for dinner fixings, and retreated back to the pool and garden of the mansionette. Vowing not to venture over the hill again.

Saturday, I luxuriated in the lushness of the garden, went to a movie ("Rock of Ages" a guilty pleasure) and came back for more garden luxuriating. I got a text from a guy I had been communicating with and we agreed to meet for lunch the next day. My hosts got back that evening. We had a newsy visit before they hauled their tired bodies off to bed.

Sunday was the money shot. My hosts and I had a scrumptious and insanely healthy breakfast, I did a load of laundry (I am in-suite laundry deprived in Palm Springs), then took off to meet my potential new  acquaintance. We had lunch at Rive Gauche Cafe on Ventura Blvd (highly recommended) and talked. Turns out he worked for many years as a furniture salesman in Los Angeles. He was a font of useful information, and a nice guy as well. After lunch we sought out an Asian import store further down the boulevard where my hosts had purchased a buddha for their garden. The owner is a Thai-Chinese man from Korat, Thailand. He imports the southeast Asian equivalent of cottage furniture. Rustic, even whimsical statues, chests and tables that work very well as accent pieces in mega-mansion decor. Between him and my new acquaintance,  I got some valuable feedback about my idea.

I drove back to Palm Springs today and will continue doing research here. Clearly this business, if it is to be, is not going to spring full blown, Athena-like, from my head. It's going to take patience, persistence, and diligence (not my strongest suits).

Interestingly, my brief visit to LA (which is still all seven circles of hell, by the way) raised a few ghosts that will probably never be completely exorcised. They are less troubling now, but their spirits still cast a shroud over the city for me. I know I'll be going back, and it's fine for a visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.

Palm Springs Aerial Tram Ride and Hike to Round Valley

A Swiss-built rotating tramcar gives up to 80 people a 360° view as they ride up the mountain.

From Wikipedia's entry on The Palm Springs Aerial Tramway:

 The twelve-and-a-half minute ride begins at the Valley Station at 2,643 ft (806 m) and passes up North America's sheerest mountain face through five life zones on its way to the Mountain Station at 8,516 ft (2,596 m) above mean sea level. Travelers start in the Sonoran Desert and arrive at an alpine forest.

View from the trail head

Actually, by the time you get to the tram parking lot you've already climbed 2,643ft from the valley floor. From the top station, it's another 1,500 ft and a six-mile hike to the top of Mt. San Jacinto which is at just over 10,000 ft. The temperature in Palm Spring was 89° at 7:30 am – heading toward the very high 90s. At the top of the tramway, the temperature was 65.° All of this within an hour, if your timing is good, from where I'm living.

Rock formations near the base station

If you end the journey at the mountain station, is enough drama for most people. The ride up in itself begs the use of spectacular and breath taking. There are panoramic views of the Coachella Valley and the desert cities from the deck of the top station. A short, but aerobic, and very vertical half mile walk out the back sets you in the middle of a tribe of rock formations jutting out of the bedrock like the emerging life forms they are.

Rush hour on the trail

But I didn't stop there.

My companion was a local man I met who enjoys hiking. Since I'd never managed to do it on previous visits, I wanted to be able to say I've taken the tram at least once. I would never have done the hike without company, and Jose was a perfect guide. I'm not used to level 3 hikes at 8,500 ft so we agreed to do the hike to Round Valley campsite – a 4.5 mile round trip. Joining us were at least a hundred other hikers in groups ranging from two to twenty we passed along the trail coming and going. ALmost everyone we passed said hello. I think the lack of oxygen makes people friendlier. Ages ranged from pre-teens to old farts like myself. Jose and I made the trek out in about an hour and a half, our pace slowed somewhat by my picture taking. Jose was very patient. I know I slowed him down, but by a half-mile into the hike I knew I was going to get my exercise for the day and made the wise decision to pace myself.

Why is this man smiling?

Up and back, we were on the trail almost three hours. It was visual overload. The air was intoxicatingly clean (and thin). I was pleased I didn't have a heart attack or just give out and need to be helicoptered out. The last half mile up that nearly vertical concrete path back to the station was the unkindest cut. By the end, my feet were providing an object lesson in not wearing old hiking shoes for the first time in 5 years on your first alpine hike is three years (My last mountain hike was more of a hill climb through the jungle. My (hyperbole warning) near death experience on that jaunt is recounted in an earlier blog that will disappear at the end of this month as part of the transformation of mac.com to iCloud.

Round Valley campsite.
No vacancy for the weekend

This hike was a walk in the park compared to that one. But jeezus, I was tired, and my feet ached, and the next day my legs felt like concrete, and my knees kept screaming at me, "you are not a young man any more."

I did it, and I'm glad. There are more photos on my Facebook page if you are curious.

Last night, as part of my recovery, I went to see "Snow White and the Huntsman." It is rich visually. The performances are energetic. The story a mythic melding of the brothers Grimm and Jean d'Arc. Another in a compelling string of female heroines. But why do our myths still offer up resolution as redemption through violence? I know it's viscerally exciting, but is it really an evolutionary step forward to portray women behaving like men? Is our new mythic hero Victor Victoria on steroids and in need of anger management counseling? I wonder.

Memorial Day Week

The light during the eclipse was an eerie
mashup of twilight and high noon.

It's been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon; and for me, it's been an eventful two weeks in Palm Springs. For starters there was the annular eclipse, an event we shared with a goodly portion of Asia and the Western US. I watched it from Bob and Doug's back yard. I didn't see the ring of fire but the effect on the land below was note worthy. The quality and angle of light was eerily beautiful – a mashup of high noon and twilight.

I have become very aware of light here. Light and heat are the dominant sensations in these parts. During the day, the intensity of both nearly obliterate the other senses. The beauty of the land, and there is a tremendous amount of beauty here, is best appreciated in the early morning or late in the day when both the light and heat are tempered enough to allow for color, scent, and sound to hold their own. At night, floodlit, the sky a jeweler's drape, the architecture of the city emerges like a still glamorous lady of a certain age who understands the importance of good lighting. So much of the architecture here looks best in soft light.

Archetypal mid-century courtyard apartment complex in the
Warm Springs neighborhood

I have begun to meet people. From the small sample, I am encouraged that the diversity I have been missing is abundant here. I have met two neighbors, which given the summer occupancy of this complex is probably about 40%, is not bad. My neighbor on the left is a retired school teacher. She smokes on her back balcony on late afternoons when the sun has dipped to the other side of the building (morning smokes are on the front balcony. Often I sit out at that time to enjoy the afternoon light. Sometimes we chat. The neighbor across the way is another retiree from Los Angeles. Don't know much about him yet.

Lobby area at The Parker

I met a man, retired AT&T employee, who is half Navajo, half Cherakowa Apache. He has greatly aided a reexamination of many of my cultural assumptions. He is not Indian or Native American as in Amerigo Vespucci. He is half Navajo, half Cherakowa Apache. He is a dessert person. He has spent the bulk of his years in New Mexico, Nevada, and Southern California. He lived on the East Coast for several years and hated it. He was unfamiliar with the land and uncomfortable with the people. When Tony talks about people he is talking about the original inhabitants of the land. His discomfort was with the energies of the native peoples of the Southeast US.

Tony's perspective on the world is as a Navajo/Apache through a libertarian filter.  He is not optimistic about the current state of civilization. He has many observations regarding how out of balance things have gotten. I don't share all his views but I do agree with his assessment of how interesting (as in old Chinese curse) the times are in which we live.

Lemonade garden with bocci court at The Parker

His has conviction that he is a member of a species of humanity on the verge of extinction. It has been predicted by his elders for generations. He is very fatalistic about it all. His plan is to escape to Portugal, where he owns a small apartment, as soon as he reaches retirement age. From his perspective, Portugal is a third world country and knows it. The US has become a third world country and is still oblivious to the fact. As I said, I am beginning to meet people.

My brother and sister-in-law were in town for nine days. They looked at a fair amount of real estate and we checked out several local eateries with mixed results. Lulu, Rick's: good. Wang's: awful.

As a tour guide I blew it, though. Today, thanks to a friend who also moved here from Sarasota, I was introduced to one of the many hidden treasures of Palm Springs.

The Parker Hotel and Resort was once Gene Autry’s Melody Ranch estate. It was, for a time, the Merv Griffin Resort, then the Givenchy Hotel and Spa—and now, it’s part of Parker-Merridien Hotels and known as simply The Parker. The public areas have been restored to their multi-decade splendor. There is a mix of 50s, 60s, and 70s decor including Mr. Parkers a restaurant that looks like it awaiting the momentary arrival of the Rat Pack,

Indoor and outdoor dining is open to the public

Just over the garden walls that ring the property is busy Palm Canyon Drive. Once inside the walls, you are in a secret pleasure garden with fountains, pools, and abundant greenery. It is a place of sybaritic retreat and indulgently clandestine trysts for the wealthy and famous. There are many such places in Palm Springs and I intend to check out as many as possible. If you want to see more photos of The Parker go the link above or check out my Facebook album.

I can see that there is more to this place than meets the eye, especially at mid-day. I look forward to discovering more hidden places for myself — and for the blog.

Settling In

Unconditional Surrender

So far, the move here has been pretty easy. Registering the car, reclaiming my California driver's license, changing addresses, were accomplished without any problems. The biggest adjustment to living here is adjusting to living here. 

Some days I feel like Palm Springs is the Bizarro World version of Sarasota – or vice versa. Sarasota is hot and humid. Palm Springs is hot and dry. Sarasota is on the water. Palm Springs sits on a huge aquifer but is surrounded by dessert and mountains. 

Marilyn Forever

Sarasota has the monumentally kitsch "Unconditional Surrender" by Johnson & Johnson heir Seward Johnson. Palm Springs has the monumentally kitsch "Forever Marilyn" by Johnson & Johnson heir Seward Johnson. Medical marijuana dispensaries in Palm Springs are as common as OxyContin peddlers (often referred to as doctors) are in Sarasota. 

Both cities have a sizable retirement community, but with a population of 55 percent LGBT, the 70 somethings at World Gym or Gold's here are a very different breed from the country club set in Sarasota. 

Welcome to The Hotel California

Palm Springs is a small city two hours from LA, San Diego, and Las Vegas. Within a short drive, you can be in the mountains, the high dessert, or the coast. In many ways it looks and feels like the resort town it was in the mid 60s. Many of the mid-century modern homes and hotels once frequented by Hollywood elite have been lavishly restored. The skyline is still low thanks to strict building codes.

I'm still building a pattern of life here. I suspect it will take some time. Now that I have taken care of the move logistics – except for changing my medical plan – I have to start working on what I'll do here. 

A five-minute walk from my place

One of the biggest problems for me in Sarasota was finding things of interest to do and like-minded people to do things with. It's already clear there is no shortage of like-minded people here, but the real work that lies ahead for me is to see if my idea for an import business is viable. I am encouraged that I have already made a few contacts for my information gathering and I hope to go to LA soon to check out the market there.

In the meantime, there is the area to explore. My brother and his wife are here this week which provides me a good excuse to check out some of the local sights. 

"There's rosemary, that's for remembrance...

Day two in Palm Springs.

With no idea how long it would take, I set out to get the car registered in its new home state and to resurrect my California Driver's License. Not only did I accomplish both of those tasks, I also did a Trader Joe's and Target run. I was on a roll. When I got home, I went to Facebook and saw Gretchen Michelfeld's post.

"This afternoon at approximately 2:30 pm, Beatrice Terry Lopez died peacefully and pain-free. She was home with us. Surrounded by her family. Bathed in love."

I looked up from the computer at the bronze casting of Mercury I brought with me from Florida. The light hit the statue in such a way that the god seemed to manifest from light. I was overcome with a sensation of Beatrice, beloved of Mercury, manifesting into light.

The god of communication showered Beatrice Terry Lopez with all of his gifts. Each muse visited her with astonishing talent.  Mental images of Bea performing, singing, composing, writing, directing, and teaching flood over me.

I met Beatrice when she was a student at ACT in San Francisco. A friend of mine was teaching at the conservatory. Bea was her student and part-time au pere. In performance, it was clear she had a huge talent as an actress, singer, and dancer. Her gifts in composing and writing had yet to show themselves.

Beatrice's heart was even bigger than her talents. She eschewed the fame chase and devoted herself to teaching at a private school where she divinized children's theater with adaptations and original productions exquisitely tailored for young performers. Her gifts as a director brought out performances from her pre-teen ensemble that blew away audiences. The production of "Krishna in Hollywood" – written, composed, and directed by Beatrice Terry is legend. Her musical about Leonardo Da Vinci is Broadway worthy. Bea understood better than anyone I knew the sacred roots of theater. For her, theater was worship.

I know less of her career in New York City.  She was involved with many Broadway productions including "Spring Awakening," "Memphis," and "Gods of Carnage." I saw a studio production of a show she wrote while at Sarah Lawrence that was as good as any of the plays by other artists she nurtured to the stage.

Bea's glorification was her relationships – her family, her students, her friends, her co-workers. Most glorious of all, the off the charts glorification, is her marriage to Gretchen and the product of their collaborations, the inimitable Beckett. My heart goes out to both of you.

Dearest Bea, thank you for being among us and sharing so much with so many of us. I know you are in a better place. As much as I'll miss your physical presence, I'll look forward to meeting again "some time, somewhere, some how." Until then, God's speed and, thanks for the visit.

A Gentle Landing in Palm Springs

Saguaro blossoms courtesy
of the photographer

Once I left San Antonio, my goal was to get to Palm Springs post haste without killing myself. On Saturday, I made it as far as Lordsburg, New Mexico - 764 miles. A long day made easier by 80 mph highway speeds in Texas and 75 mph most of the rest of the way. Sunday I completed the 538 mile drive to Palm Springs. I left Lordsburg at 8 am MDT, and pulled into Bob and Doug's in Palm Springs – to pick up the key to the apartment – at 3 pm PST.

Gas station cat

His pal

I took only a few pictures. I probably should have gotten at least a snapshot of the Saguaro cacti in bloom and the boulder formations at Texas Canyon, but I was in road mode not wander mode. I did get two cats when I stopped for gas that I'll post here and on Facebook. Pure pandering to the cat people there, but they were interesting looking cats.

Bob took me down to the apartment and helped me unload the car. After a brief orientation and the discovery that the router was fried, he left me to move piles of things around for awhile before joining him and Doug for dinner back at their house. Of course, the first thing I did was find a wireless network I could join temporarily and, hallelujah, I succeeded.

The living area with Mercury

Looking into the dining area and
the Chinese vase

I arranged bags and boxes around the apartment placing things in approximate locations and called my friend from Sarasota who had moved here in December. A brief provisioning trip to get breakfast stuff, a delicious home-cooked meal of grilled chicken and tobouleh prepared by Doug, and I crashed at 10 pm, road weary, well-fed, and pleased beyond measure at were I had landed.

 Today, I started unpacking, placing  the Chinese vase I rescued from a dumpster in Washington DC, and a bronze casting of Bologna's "Mercury" gifted to me by a dear friend, to personalize the place. I  continuously marveled at what a lovely environment Bob had created. I am most fortunate to have landed in such a place. Having landed, the next steps are settling in and taking care of move stuff.

My bedroom

I will continue to blog this transition into tabula rasa for my own benefit and for anyone else who is curious. Going through the aisles at Ralph's last evening getting a few things I realized that this move is a big deal for me personally. What that deal is is anybody's guess. I have moved to Lotus Land but I didn't come here to succumb to earthly pleasures. I think there are some valuable opportunities waiting to exercise balance in the near future.

Sarepta

Catalpa blossoms, my first impression of Sarepta

Last summer, on my road trip cross country I took Interstate 10 through Louisiana. West of New Orleans, the highway crosses through bayou country for a long stretch. It is a beautiful journey and at the time I decided I would go back there and do some exploring. Serendipitously, when I started planning my move to Palm Springs, I made contact with Eddie McMurray who lives in Sarepta, Louisiana, about 40 miles from Shreveport. Eddie and I corresponded, talked on the phone and he invited me to stop through Sarepta on my way to California. So, after a short visit with family in Alabama, I drove Interstate 20 across Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana and arrived at Sarepta for what was an unexpected adventure that also included some bayou exploration.

St. Peter Mission Baptist Church where Eddie
was interim Minister

As a congenital Southerner (my mother, father, and brother were all born in Alabama) I have always had deep, mixed feelings about my heritage. As a boy I summered in various parts of Alabama. I have already written about how much I love Lake Martin. My memories of staying with aunts and uncles, of food fresh from the garden, of fish fries, barbecue, cornbread, and fried chicken from chickens that were running loose in the back yard earlier in the day they appeared on the dinner table are golden. I relish he time I spent exploring woods and fields, swimming in lakes, creeks, and the Gulf of Mexico. I grew up reading Faulkner, Styron, Harper Lee, Eudora Welty, Joel Chandler Harris. I owe a good deal of my college education to as tory I wrote about my grandmother's funeral that earned me a William Faulkner Scholarship at the University of Virginia. I felt a special connection to Thomas Jefferson. My ancestors included, Sephardic Jews, and French Huguenots who settled in the deep south. I am descended from Creek Indians who were chased from their lands in Alabama during the trail of tears.

The old town has been replaced by strip malls
and fast food restaurants on the main highway

I cringe at the current politics, but then I cringe at the state of politics everywhere. I respect the beliefs of many in my family even if I don't share them. I wonder what became of the great literary tradition. And I miss the home cooking.

The first thing that struck me about the area is how much it like where I had just come from in Alabama. Indeed, the three states have much in common in terms of land and civilization. We may be one nation under God, but we are not one nation demographically. Even in what we call "the south" there are fundamental differences. Alamissiana is not Texas, is not Florida. But I digress.

Me and Eddie at the marker where bank robbers Bonnie Parker
and Clyde Barrow were ambushed an killed.

Sarepta is in northwest Louisiana. It was once the site of one of the largest paper mills in the US. Today most of the people who live here work in local service businesses and restaurants or commute to Shreveport or other nearby towns. Sarepta is home to C&W singer and actor Trace Atkins. My host Eddie grew up in Sarepta. He had a successful career as a concert pianist and lived away from Sarepta for many years. He moved back here to help care for his centenarian mother. Today, he teaches piano  and Bible studies. He has also served as interim minister at one of the many local Baptist churches. He lives with three other men who he has known for years. He is also an unofficial counselor helping many people with their personal problems.

Eddie's father was principal at this Rosenwald School
that is now in ruins.

Eddie is a marvelous host. He took me touring to several of the local bayous and nearby towns. He took me to the Bonnie an Clyde Authentic Ambush Museum where I met L.J. "Boots" Hinton, Museum spokesman and son of Deputy Sheriff Ted Hinton, participant in the actual ambush. According to L.J. and the exhibits in the museum, the movie that was such a formative influence in my developing aesthetic when I was at university, was about 5% true. At least once percent is their sense of style. They were young, and very stylish, and good looking. No wonder they were such popular figures in the depth of the depression.

And as much as I enjoyed seeing the bayous, what I really enjoyed was getting a look into the lives of the people I met. I'd like to thank Eddie, Vila, John, Steve, Vinnie, Michael, Rod, and all the other people who helped me reconnect with my southerness in a positive way. At the risk of sweeping over simplification, I found that one on one southern hospitality is still intact. That one on one people connect with the heart first. If matters of the head – race, or religion, or politics, or social issues – get involved, all bets are off. 

Cypress trees

Non sequitur

The power went off for over two hours while I was working on this blog entry. Two hours of media and technology deprivation  No Internet or no TV news. No electricity. It was a small reminder of how fragile our connection is to the 21st century and how unprepared we are were we to have to do without it for an extended period.

Berm at Bayou Dorcheat

Bayou Bodcau

Bayou Bodcau

Bayou Bodcau