The motel where I stayed was owned by two men who loved fashion. The rooms were softly decorated in wonderful colors and I had a yellow and white one.
It left such an impression on me, the effect of yellow and white and sun, that I bought deck furniture in those colors when I went home that spring, and it never failed to remind me of Palm Springs.
The temperature reached 115° in the shade during the days. I couldn't even breathe in that, so I ran for the air conditioning wherever I could find it.
The motel owners were friendlier than anyone else in town, and when it was time to head to San Diego, they pulled out a map and traced a route for me to take. It cut across country, through lush green hills, past miles and miles of black wooden fences, thousands of Aberdeen Angus cattle and bulls grazing in the sun, and ranch buildings so sprawling they looked like well-kept mansions parked at the end of long, paved tree-lined driveways.
Wealth was everywhere along those back country roads.
The motel owners had said I'd enjoy the drive as much as they did, whenever they headed down to San Diego with their cute little dogs to visit family and friends.
If it wasn't so unbearably hot in Palm Springs, I would have wanted to make my home there. It had a peacefulness about it, an aura that everything was special and to be savored at leisure.
But a friend years later sent me a postcard while he was on business there, and he said that on the sidewalks, the glue melted on the soles of his shoes, and the soles came undone. His shoes fell apart.
Now that's hot. I can't breathe just thinking about it.
Yikes, that sounds crazy hot! I can barely handle the heat here in Canada, I don't think I'd last very long in Palm Springs :)
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