This December, I will mark nineteen years in Palm Springs. I think that qualifies me as a local. So we’re at the start of my nineteenth summer here. People often ask me, “How hot does it get in Palm Springs?” The answer is simple: if your car’s steering wheel doesn’t qualify as a weapon, it’s not summer yet. The thing to remember is that Palm Springs is a beautiful desert oasis famous for golf courses, luxury resorts, celebrities, homosexuals, and temperatures this time of year that make visitors question whether they accidentally booked a vacation on Mercury. During the summer, the weather forecast often reads something like: “Sunny, 118°F, with a chance of spontaneous combustion.”
In most places, people check the weather to decide what to wear. In Palm Springs, people check the weather to decide if it is safe to go outside. Residents don’t ask, “How’s the weather?” They ask, “Can I survive the walk from my front door to the mailbox?” Where I live, our facility’s greatest asset becomes its biggest liability in the summertime. Most assisted living facilities feature long, non-descript hallways decorated with the ambiance of an upscale Holiday Inn Express and smelling of… well, let’s just say I’ve toured a few of those places and the assault on your olfactory sense is probably against the Geneva Convention.
But here at Stonewall Gardens, all of our apartments, and our dining room (which doubles as an activity room and a meeting space) open onto our lush and verdant courtyard – I like to say we not only put the G in Gay but we put it in Gardens! It’s beautiful, and sometimes I sit and stare out my window and just take it all in, mindful of how truly fortunate I am to live here. I try to do that at least once a day – it’s a mindfulness practice I call developing my attitude of gratitude.
This time of year, however, it’s a bit of a challenge, because heading off to the dining room for a meal feels like mounting an expedition on the surface of the sun. Gordon is none too pleased with the feel of the tile of our patio on his paws when its time to go outside for peepeepoopoos. Local wildlife has adapted in some fascinating ways. Birds, for example, fly only during the cooler parts of the day, which is a phrase that in Palm Springs means “between 4:00 and 4:07 am.” Even the cacti seem uncomfortable. Just the other day I heard Carl the Cactus (seen at right), that I’ve been growing for two years, saying, “Wow Matt, this is a bit much.”
Visitors quickly learn several important lessons. First, never leave a bottle of water in your car. You may return to steam. Second, never touch anything metal. Door handles become tiny branding irons. Third, if someone tells you, “It’s a dry heat,” understand that while this – the absence of humidity – is technically true, it is ultimately unhelpful. Being roasted in a convection oven is also dry.
The swimming pools are no refuge, either. By mid-afternoon, many pools have transformed into giant bowls of soup. Tourists eagerly jump in expecting relief and emerge wondering why the water feels like freshly brewed coffee.
Cars suffer as well. In cooler climates, people worry about scraping ice from their windshields. In Palm Springs, people worry that their dashboard has melted into a modern art installation. Seat belts become strips of lava. Getting into a parked car requires the courage of a firefighter and the agility of a gymnast. I have written before about the maneuvers I have to make as a disabled person to enter and exit a car without flash frying the palms of my hands on flat surfaces; it looks a bit like rhythmic gymnastics for people with a movement disorder.
Despite all this, and perhaps because of it, there is no place else like Palm Springs – it has a calmness about it that I not only love but I crave. I’m a proud native of Los Angeles two hours away, and I get back there when I can, but I am dumbfounded when I do – the congestion, the pace, never a patch of undeveloped land… no thanks. And the noise. Palm Springs is quiet, not just in those moments before dawn (like when I’m writing this) but all day. The only noise is the din of the air conditioning units whirring away in the afternoon. We locals proudly tell visitors, “You get used to it,” and while such a statement is usually delivered this time of year from inside a building cooled to the temperature of a meat locker, it is true. I often say that June, July, and August, and some of September, are the price we pay for the rest of the year which is the closest thing to paradise on Earth I’ve found.
My first summer I thought I’d made a terrible mistake; nineteen summers in, I honestly cannot imagine living anywhere else. And when it gets too hot, we just got a Ninja XL (at left) here at Stonewall so we can make our own frozen margaritas (and slushies, and frappés). There’s even a recipe for Mudslides – like a milkshake for grown-ups! Irish cream is mixed with coffee liqueur and vodka to make a boozy, sweet, and creamy cold drink, perfect for when the cement outside is melting!
Today, the forecast calls for a high of 106 and a low of 81. You know you’re a local when your first thought on seeing that is, “Nice! It’s cooling off.”
