Morsels - from Heritage Artifacts

My room is all-white with flowing curtains and a stone floor. The sounds of the many fountains echo off the walls of the courtyard outside my room. I lay in my starkly white bed looking out over the warm pool framed by arbors of Bougainvillea to the mountains beyond, watching hummingbirds compete for nectar from the abundant flowers.  The pool, almost too warm for an afternoon swim, was silent and inviting at midnight for a topless dip under the night sky.

My books and magazines lay near the oversized Moroccan bed under the arbors; strewn with pillows, it provides a tranquil respite from the afternoon heat. Pretty young girls bring chilled mint tea to refresh and light candles and outdoor fires at sunset.  The stone and tile courtyards capture the changing light of the day, alive with the sounds of constantly flowing water.

I could be in northern Africa or southern Spain but I am at the small, lovely Mediterranean-influenced hotel in Palm Springs, Korakia.  Churchill painted in the ‘artist’s studio’ which is the room above mine.  I know this because the night innkeeper found me wandering the courtyard last night and gave me a tour of the place, showed me a few of the rooms and told me of its fascinating history.  The property was built in the early 1920s by a gentleman who had a Moroccan bride.  It was his gift to her.  Indeed, a very lovely property.

Joshua Tree National Park, a short jaunt from my hotel, was always a part of my agenda.  It was silent, awe-inspiring and without the movement of others.  Spectacular in its landscape and solitude, I spent many hours hiking aimlessly.  I was kept company by the on-going dialogue in my head, birds floating in the light wind and the salamanders, which made me jump each time they slithered out in front of me.  Indian Canyons, on the opposite end of Palm Springs, found me hiking up their mountainsides and down their lower valleys in the early morning coolness.  The views to the valley below were remarkable and the palm groves were wild-looking to this northern Californian.

It’s like I’m an old Russian woman.  I take the baths whenever I am able. I found a cool spa in Desert Hot Springs, uninterestingly called The Spa. Three pools of differing temps all fed by mineral springs. I soaked until I pruned, watching the high clouds blow over the mountains in huge gusts of winds, making the palm fronds shiver against the blue sky.  I also managed to play a decent back-nine on one of the many beautiful golf courses.  I was teamed up with three older gentlemen, all of whom outplayed me on every hole, but graciously bought cocktails afterwards.

As a huge food enthusiast, I am always on the prowl for a great meal.  It doesn’t need to be fancy nor expensive, but prepared with the highest quality ingredients, preferably from the area.  Palm Springs was not particularly food-noteworthy, but I enjoyed a perfectly done fish and chips from The Fisherman’s Market on the main drag, and a plate of spicy Szechuan veggies and a tall Chinese beer at a fancy, crowded Chinese room.  I gorged on a platter of sashimi and a seaweed salad with good, chilled sake from Wasabi Grill and a pulled pork sandwich from a bbq joint on the main drag.  

 I have heard for years that Palm Springs is THE destination for good antique shops specializing in mid-century modern pieces.  I only found a few.  The Galleria was the best.  The gentleman proprietor could not have been more knowledgeable and charming and I bought a couple of pieces of pottery, an enormous primitive cheese grater and a book on Danish Modernism.  He gave me a tour of his building and mentioned Martha Stewart had been in the week prior, to visit both his store and his home, which is an architecturally significant mid-century modern property.  

Driving back to northern California, I felt not anxious, but grounded; moving forward.  Time away always provides new thought, new ideas, new bursts of creativity, new momentum.