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penfieldFRIDAY, MARCH 3
Comedian Jerry Seinfeld has joked – and I'm paraphrasing here – that packing for a trip is a measure of your personal fear. The last time I packed for a trip longer than a week was when I moved to Washington D.C., and since then my level of personal fear has not significantly improved.
Part of the problem was that I had to pack not only for extensive leisure time but also for collar-intensive events such as a wedding and rehearsal dinner. These events required fancy touches such as "ties," "dress shoes" and "pants that do not look as if they have been lying on my living room floor for several weeks."
Plus, I had little more than a vague idea about what the weather would hold in store for me during my trip. There exists a prevailing assumption that southern California is always sunny and 72 degrees Fahrenheit, with a light southeasterly breeze that smells like cocoa butter. (E! Entertainment Network meteorology research suggests that the 12-foot radius surrounding Jessica Alba is at least ten degrees hotter and smells more like cinnamon.)
However, since I am typically more skeptical of prevailing assumptions than most people, and – not to put too fine a point on it – more fearful, I tried to prepare myself for every eventuality. Hedging my bets, I packed my most versatile pants and a ridiculous number of both athletic and formal socks. I packed long-sleeve t-shirts and short-sleeve sweaters. I packed enough underwear to safely sheath the entire Broadway cast of "Hair." I brought two different kinds of Hawaiian shirts, depending on my corresponding level of whimsy. And I even included all my jogging gear, under the laughable premise that I would find the both the spare time and the agitated urge to exercise.
I ended up forgetting to bring a belt.
Anyway, once packed, the first legs of my journey were relatively stress-free. To Palm Springs, CA (via Phoenix), I enjoyed window seats on both flights. Generally I prefer aisle seats, because they allow ever-so-slightly-more leg room and because you can go to the bathroom whenever you want. But I decided to get the window treatment this time, because of the possibility of grand canyons and mountains' majesty.
There was no hint of the former and plenty of the latter. But what I remember most about the four-hour flight to Phoenix was the fact that half the plane was made up of Russian (or perhaps Miscellaneous Baltic State) physicians all discussing high-level medical treatments with each other, including the two guys to my right, who were animatedly discussing a shared journal paper. I didn't get a good look at it, but I think I saw something about "ACE INHIBITORS" and "PHLEGMATIC SPUME". But I could be wrong about one of those.
About three-fourths of the way through the flight (and my Samurai Sudoku), sure enough, I had to pee. And I went through that actuarial discussion in my head about whether it was worth displacing my row mates or if I could hold it for another hour if I kept my mind busy and avoided any more complimentary beverages. Eventually I just had to go, and to heck with my row mates if they had a problem with it. Hell, a person knows what they're getting into when they take an aisle seat. And if you're stuck in the middle seat, then you should just be grateful for the five minutes of elbow room my swollen bladder is going to provide you.
For those of you who have not been to Palm Springs International Airport, it is roughly the size of my apartment. For those of you who have not been to my apartment, imagine a walk-in closet with a kitchen. I don't know what foreign lands are served by Palm Springs International Airport, but from the size of it I would guess they are referring to Utah.
J., who had arrived in Palm Springs the previous day, picked me up at the airport along with her father and stepmother. I was prepared for a truly ligament-shattering handshake from Mr. F. (Mr. F!), a sturdy, casually masculine man who makes his living as a hammer-and-saw-wielding carpenter.
To my surprise, I was not overmatched by his opening salvo. I managed to secure a nice, flush grip and equaled his solid but not overwhelming hand pressure. Was he going easy on me? Was he momentarily thrown off by the glare of the desert sun on my gleaming forehead? I could not tell, because he was wearing mirrored sunglasses and was in a hurry to get his rented minivan back on the road before rush hour traffic got too bad.
(Rush hour traffic never got too bad. Not in Palm Springs. Everyone in Palm Springs is rich or retired or both. If there is a rush for anything, it is the 9:00 a.m. tee times and the 5:00 p.m. early-bird specials. And if traffic is backed up, it's because the senior citizens who left their homes at noon are finally getting onto the main roads at about 3:00 p.m.)
J. and her family were there for her brother's wedding to a young woman of some societal stature. The only folks in the wedding party who actually lived in Palm Springs were the bride's mother and stepfather, apparently members of the Golf Club Caste and in possession of so much money that they were using old twenty-dollar bills to polish their ruby slippers. Not only were they hosting the wedding (and the rehearsal dinner) at their "modest" PGA West condo in La Quinta, they were providing accommodations for all the wedding guests in their various time-share properties within the country club community.
J. and I, along with her father, stepmother and younger brother, were staying in a quaint little $2 million flat, nestled along the Weiskopf course's 17th green. This condo's majesty exceeded that of the mountains, which by the way were visible from the alcove's floor-to-ceiling bay windows as well as the moulded stone Jacuzzi just behind the wave pool. Also visible from the Jacuzzi was a 52" high-definition television with patio speakers and a gas-burning faux fire pit, perfect for roasting faux marshmallows.
This was the main house. J. and I had the "guest house" all to ourselves. This house was more modest, befitting our actual social class or, with a little spit and polish, possibly the lower members of a Central American royal delegation.
That evening, after a rehearsal dinner where my goal was to avoid spilling cocktail sauce on myself (mission accomplished!) and find as many creative ways as possible to describe my occupation (mission accomplished! – I think – most people tuned out after I fumbled the Rich Person Secret Handshake), I settled into bed with J. and tried not to think about the fact that her father was there, 20 yards away, with a casual hobby of shooting cute woodland creatures who were not even sleeping with his daughter.
The weather, incidentally: 72 degrees Fahrenheit, with a light southeasterly breeze that smelled like Fixodent.
SATURDAY, MARCH 4:
I started out my Saturday with the first of many starch-soaked vacation breakfasts, the kind of breakfasts you usually only eat once a week, if that, because otherwise you would fall asleep again by noon and eventually need a scooter to get around your house. J's family and I actually found a relatively greasy spoon ("The Gilded Spatula") just a short jaunt from the Indian Wells tennis complex, where I ordered "Breakfast Special A," a traditional combination of flapjacks, eggs (over hard), bacon and juice, with a side of Lipitor.
That beautiful Saturday afternoon represented our only unscheduled free time in Palm Springs, and I longed to take a refreshing jog in the mild desert air, along the rolling pastures of fresh-cut grass and awe-inspiring mountain vistas, and follow that up with a relaxing soak in the Jacuzzi. But since a man of my age and urban attire running down the street would likely have inspired suspicion among the residential security force that I was boosting car stereos, I was instead convinced to attend the local Public Market and Arts Fair just north of the city.
There was nothing particularly Palm Springs-y about the public market, except the saturating levels of pink in the apparel and home decor booths. J. and her mother enjoyed the kettle corn and Italian ice while I sampled a juicy, though perhaps a bit underripe, California nectarine. I was also able to purchase a belt that did not have a lasso or a flamingo on it.
Soon it was time for the wedding, held in the actual backyard of the aforementioned bride's mother and stepfather. It was a small, intimate affair of only about 40 guests, with three-fourths of that total comprised of the bride's collection of honorary aunts. The ceremony was elegant and lovely, with the bride and groom exchanging their own handwritten vows, though there were a few of those unpredictably precious moments, such as when the bride's dazed toddler nephews – already clad in oversized tuxedos that made them look like extras in a Talking Heads video – almost waddled into the pool during the exchange of rings. Or such as the bride's spiked heels sliding smoothly into the uncharacteristically moist backyard grass.
The whole event was relatively brief, mercifully enough for those of us wearing patently uncomfortable shoes – and even more so for the lack of dancing. The patio, already full with the dining tables, heat lamps and floral accents, boasted only enough leftover room for the key wedding party members to make their excruciatingly heartfelt speeches, but not enough room for them to slink away quietly after they inevitably broke down sobbing. So dancing was right out. Not that this was a particularly funky crowd, anyhow. The first four bars of "I Feel Good" likely would have been punctuated by the sound of a dozen hips fracturing.
After we returned home, I finally got my soak in the hot tub, which must have been amped up to about 375 degrees. I had to get out and go to bed after I became somewhat lightheaded and started smelling chicken soup.
SUNDAY, MARCH 5
On Sunday, all of the relatives and other guests began the slow exodus from the 'Springs, beginning with J's father and stepmother. This was also our cue to get our rental car, which would be our mode of transportation for the rest of our West Coast swing.
For those of you who don't know me, or who haven't been paying attention: I hate driving. Hate. It goes all the way back to the beginning of my driver's training, which consisted of three stages:
1. Driving with my parents, who quickly transitioned from barking out directions to shrieking incoherently and frantically attempting to apply phantom brakes in the passenger seat;
2. Being banished to Driver's Education classes, where the goal of almost all the other students was merely to supplement extensive existing driving knowledge and utlimately obtain their "blue card" conferring legal permission to drive after 9 p.m., and where my classmates quickly learned that their panicked cries for help only made me more nervous and therefore dangerous; and
3. Obtaining private one-on-one lessons with a professional instructor who was impossibly calm, gentle and patient with me, clearly through the ingestion of some sort of Quaalude cocktail.
Anyway, I made a deal with J. that I would make all arrangements for the rental car if she would agree to handle the bulk of the wheelwork. In fact, I was able to secure the car almost entirely through my American Express rewards program, cashing in the precious points I had accumulated through my controlled but nonetheless exorbitant credit card spending over the previous seven years.
We approached the clerk at the counter and began filling out the paperwork. As the official renter of the car, I provided my license, etc., and asked if J. could be added to the rental agreement as a secondary driver.
"Sure," he said. "I'll just need your driver's license, ma'am."
At this point, J. instinctively presented her passport, which any law enforcement agent will tell you is not valid as a substitute for a driver's license. As it happens, J. had misplaced her driver's license months prior in Las Vegas, and being an itinerant Metro rider here in Washington D.C., had not been at all motivated to procure a new one.
It probably only took a second, but it felt like several minutes before the fact sunk into my head: I was going to have to do all the driving. Hundreds of miles, on the road, alongside other cars and everything.
Perhaps the clerk noticed my sudden change in mood, or the beads of sweat collecting on my forehead, because he immediately asked if I wanted to subscribe to the optional damage and liability insurance plan. I had already confirmed with my credit card company that I was covered under their supplemental insurance program, but the clerk was not deterred from his sales pitch. At one point, I believe he said "Apersonwhowantstheoptionalinsurancecoveragesayswhat," and noted that, you know, sometimes with these credit card companies, if you don't file an accident report promptly enough, they'll kill your grandmother.
I managed to stand my ground, and he handed me the keys to a white Chevy Malibu, which, if I'm not mistaken, is also a kind of rum. Luckily, the vehicle was equipped with one of those newfangled GPS navigational systems, where an onboard computer figures out the route, and tells you where to turn and when to exit, and never ever yells or slams its imaginary foot on a phantom brake from the passenger seat.
After heading back to the country club for the tail end of the morning-after-wedding brunch, we had planned to make the trip about 30 miles north to Joshua Tree National Park, the inspiration for the classic U2 album "Achtung, Baby." I supplied the achtung on this particular trip, with my white-knuckled trek along Interstate 10 to California Highway 62, in the car following J's aunt and uncle who were camping at the park overnight.
I hate pretty much all driving, but I hate expressway driving in particular, what with the speed and the merging and the signs that totally fail to reassure me unless they say specifically, "Jason, stay in this lane to get to Joshua Tree National Park. Relax. You are a leaf on the wind."
Speaking of wind, one of the eerier sights on our journey to the park was the spectacle of the windmill farms along the San Jacinto valley. Thousands, no joke, thousands of these enormous, three-pronged windmills line the highway for miles, rotating silently in disconcertingly slow motion like something out of a well-made science-horror movie. It was literally breathtaking, and I was only able to get a sense of them; they appeared so hypnotic that I was afraid to do more than give them a peek here and there, lest I be hypnotized by their quiet creepiness and veer off the road at breakneck speed.
We made it to the park in one piece and embarked on the first of several nature hikes. I am not usually a big fan of hikes. To me, it just seems like walking, which could hardly be classified as a leisure activity, plus there's all that nature, which has always had a way of asserting its power over me, perhaps in retaliation for all the times when I peed in bushes. But I must admit that the environment was staggeringly beautiful, with truly exotic foliage, unblemished natural reservoirs, wind-sculpted rock formations and the occasional charming wildlife creature.
J's enthusiasm for the Joshua Tree itself, and its close cousins the California juniper and the singleleaf pinyon, was contagious. She even took plenty of care to admire the desert's smaller citizens, the noble but standoffish cactus. Rubbing the velvety skin of a baby prickly pear, she cooed, "Ooh, that feels so cool!" So of course I gave the small plant a pat on the head, and spent the next half-hour trying to pick approximately billions of microscopic little spines out from under my fingertips.
At the end of our last hike, as dusk was moving in, we stood on a ridge overlooking a vast mesa of nothing but desert grass and contorted Joshua Trees, like a scene lifted from IMAX footage of the Serengeti Plain. At that moment, I was filled with the power of the earth, suffused with its many delicately commingled elements and welling up with the urgent feelings of nature: I had to pee. Luckily there were public facilities, so I didn't have to use a bush.
The drive home was stressful, because if I hate expressway driving, I absolutely loathe expressway driving at night. By the way: when did they stop putting lights on long stretches of highway? In the middle of nowhere, we drivers are relying on the collective candlepower of our own meager automobiles, like it's the 1950s or Canada or something.
J. helped to get me through it, though, and we arrived safely back in La Quinta, where I treated myself to J. treating me to a Dairy Queen blizzard. Yes, it was an unhealthy snack, but in fairness I had been muscle-tensed and perspiring – mostly through my palms – for the previous 45 minutes. It felt like the Lee Iacocca Yoga Program. After dessert, we had a light dinner, and stopped into Albertson's grocery store to pick up some cash and assorted snacks for the car.
Back at the condo for our last evening in unabashed luxury, before our 8:00 a.m. date with the road to San Diego, I caught the last fleeting moments of the Academy Awards and a final soak in the hot tub before doing some laundry – fear strikes again – and getting some sleep.
And I dreamed of sunny weather and slow, straight backroads all the way there.
Comedian Jerry Seinfeld has joked – and I'm paraphrasing here – that packing for a trip is a measure of your personal fear. The last time I packed for a trip longer than a week was when I moved to Washington D.C., and since then my level of personal fear has not significantly improved.
Part of the problem was that I had to pack not only for extensive leisure time but also for collar-intensive events such as a wedding and rehearsal dinner. These events required fancy touches such as "ties," "dress shoes" and "pants that do not look as if they have been lying on my living room floor for several weeks."
Plus, I had little more than a vague idea about what the weather would hold in store for me during my trip. There exists a prevailing assumption that southern California is always sunny and 72 degrees Fahrenheit, with a light southeasterly breeze that smells like cocoa butter. (E! Entertainment Network meteorology research suggests that the 12-foot radius surrounding Jessica Alba is at least ten degrees hotter and smells more like cinnamon.)
However, since I am typically more skeptical of prevailing assumptions than most people, and – not to put too fine a point on it – more fearful, I tried to prepare myself for every eventuality. Hedging my bets, I packed my most versatile pants and a ridiculous number of both athletic and formal socks. I packed long-sleeve t-shirts and short-sleeve sweaters. I packed enough underwear to safely sheath the entire Broadway cast of "Hair." I brought two different kinds of Hawaiian shirts, depending on my corresponding level of whimsy. And I even included all my jogging gear, under the laughable premise that I would find the both the spare time and the agitated urge to exercise.
I ended up forgetting to bring a belt.
Anyway, once packed, the first legs of my journey were relatively stress-free. To Palm Springs, CA (via Phoenix), I enjoyed window seats on both flights. Generally I prefer aisle seats, because they allow ever-so-slightly-more leg room and because you can go to the bathroom whenever you want. But I decided to get the window treatment this time, because of the possibility of grand canyons and mountains' majesty.
There was no hint of the former and plenty of the latter. But what I remember most about the four-hour flight to Phoenix was the fact that half the plane was made up of Russian (or perhaps Miscellaneous Baltic State) physicians all discussing high-level medical treatments with each other, including the two guys to my right, who were animatedly discussing a shared journal paper. I didn't get a good look at it, but I think I saw something about "ACE INHIBITORS" and "PHLEGMATIC SPUME". But I could be wrong about one of those.
About three-fourths of the way through the flight (and my Samurai Sudoku), sure enough, I had to pee. And I went through that actuarial discussion in my head about whether it was worth displacing my row mates or if I could hold it for another hour if I kept my mind busy and avoided any more complimentary beverages. Eventually I just had to go, and to heck with my row mates if they had a problem with it. Hell, a person knows what they're getting into when they take an aisle seat. And if you're stuck in the middle seat, then you should just be grateful for the five minutes of elbow room my swollen bladder is going to provide you.
For those of you who have not been to Palm Springs International Airport, it is roughly the size of my apartment. For those of you who have not been to my apartment, imagine a walk-in closet with a kitchen. I don't know what foreign lands are served by Palm Springs International Airport, but from the size of it I would guess they are referring to Utah.
J., who had arrived in Palm Springs the previous day, picked me up at the airport along with her father and stepmother. I was prepared for a truly ligament-shattering handshake from Mr. F. (Mr. F!), a sturdy, casually masculine man who makes his living as a hammer-and-saw-wielding carpenter.
To my surprise, I was not overmatched by his opening salvo. I managed to secure a nice, flush grip and equaled his solid but not overwhelming hand pressure. Was he going easy on me? Was he momentarily thrown off by the glare of the desert sun on my gleaming forehead? I could not tell, because he was wearing mirrored sunglasses and was in a hurry to get his rented minivan back on the road before rush hour traffic got too bad.
(Rush hour traffic never got too bad. Not in Palm Springs. Everyone in Palm Springs is rich or retired or both. If there is a rush for anything, it is the 9:00 a.m. tee times and the 5:00 p.m. early-bird specials. And if traffic is backed up, it's because the senior citizens who left their homes at noon are finally getting onto the main roads at about 3:00 p.m.)
J. and her family were there for her brother's wedding to a young woman of some societal stature. The only folks in the wedding party who actually lived in Palm Springs were the bride's mother and stepfather, apparently members of the Golf Club Caste and in possession of so much money that they were using old twenty-dollar bills to polish their ruby slippers. Not only were they hosting the wedding (and the rehearsal dinner) at their "modest" PGA West condo in La Quinta, they were providing accommodations for all the wedding guests in their various time-share properties within the country club community.
J. and I, along with her father, stepmother and younger brother, were staying in a quaint little $2 million flat, nestled along the Weiskopf course's 17th green. This condo's majesty exceeded that of the mountains, which by the way were visible from the alcove's floor-to-ceiling bay windows as well as the moulded stone Jacuzzi just behind the wave pool. Also visible from the Jacuzzi was a 52" high-definition television with patio speakers and a gas-burning faux fire pit, perfect for roasting faux marshmallows.
This was the main house. J. and I had the "guest house" all to ourselves. This house was more modest, befitting our actual social class or, with a little spit and polish, possibly the lower members of a Central American royal delegation.
That evening, after a rehearsal dinner where my goal was to avoid spilling cocktail sauce on myself (mission accomplished!) and find as many creative ways as possible to describe my occupation (mission accomplished! – I think – most people tuned out after I fumbled the Rich Person Secret Handshake), I settled into bed with J. and tried not to think about the fact that her father was there, 20 yards away, with a casual hobby of shooting cute woodland creatures who were not even sleeping with his daughter.
The weather, incidentally: 72 degrees Fahrenheit, with a light southeasterly breeze that smelled like Fixodent.
SATURDAY, MARCH 4:
I started out my Saturday with the first of many starch-soaked vacation breakfasts, the kind of breakfasts you usually only eat once a week, if that, because otherwise you would fall asleep again by noon and eventually need a scooter to get around your house. J's family and I actually found a relatively greasy spoon ("The Gilded Spatula") just a short jaunt from the Indian Wells tennis complex, where I ordered "Breakfast Special A," a traditional combination of flapjacks, eggs (over hard), bacon and juice, with a side of Lipitor.
That beautiful Saturday afternoon represented our only unscheduled free time in Palm Springs, and I longed to take a refreshing jog in the mild desert air, along the rolling pastures of fresh-cut grass and awe-inspiring mountain vistas, and follow that up with a relaxing soak in the Jacuzzi. But since a man of my age and urban attire running down the street would likely have inspired suspicion among the residential security force that I was boosting car stereos, I was instead convinced to attend the local Public Market and Arts Fair just north of the city.
There was nothing particularly Palm Springs-y about the public market, except the saturating levels of pink in the apparel and home decor booths. J. and her mother enjoyed the kettle corn and Italian ice while I sampled a juicy, though perhaps a bit underripe, California nectarine. I was also able to purchase a belt that did not have a lasso or a flamingo on it.
Soon it was time for the wedding, held in the actual backyard of the aforementioned bride's mother and stepfather. It was a small, intimate affair of only about 40 guests, with three-fourths of that total comprised of the bride's collection of honorary aunts. The ceremony was elegant and lovely, with the bride and groom exchanging their own handwritten vows, though there were a few of those unpredictably precious moments, such as when the bride's dazed toddler nephews – already clad in oversized tuxedos that made them look like extras in a Talking Heads video – almost waddled into the pool during the exchange of rings. Or such as the bride's spiked heels sliding smoothly into the uncharacteristically moist backyard grass.
The whole event was relatively brief, mercifully enough for those of us wearing patently uncomfortable shoes – and even more so for the lack of dancing. The patio, already full with the dining tables, heat lamps and floral accents, boasted only enough leftover room for the key wedding party members to make their excruciatingly heartfelt speeches, but not enough room for them to slink away quietly after they inevitably broke down sobbing. So dancing was right out. Not that this was a particularly funky crowd, anyhow. The first four bars of "I Feel Good" likely would have been punctuated by the sound of a dozen hips fracturing.
After we returned home, I finally got my soak in the hot tub, which must have been amped up to about 375 degrees. I had to get out and go to bed after I became somewhat lightheaded and started smelling chicken soup.
SUNDAY, MARCH 5
On Sunday, all of the relatives and other guests began the slow exodus from the 'Springs, beginning with J's father and stepmother. This was also our cue to get our rental car, which would be our mode of transportation for the rest of our West Coast swing.
For those of you who don't know me, or who haven't been paying attention: I hate driving. Hate. It goes all the way back to the beginning of my driver's training, which consisted of three stages:
1. Driving with my parents, who quickly transitioned from barking out directions to shrieking incoherently and frantically attempting to apply phantom brakes in the passenger seat;
2. Being banished to Driver's Education classes, where the goal of almost all the other students was merely to supplement extensive existing driving knowledge and utlimately obtain their "blue card" conferring legal permission to drive after 9 p.m., and where my classmates quickly learned that their panicked cries for help only made me more nervous and therefore dangerous; and
3. Obtaining private one-on-one lessons with a professional instructor who was impossibly calm, gentle and patient with me, clearly through the ingestion of some sort of Quaalude cocktail.
Anyway, I made a deal with J. that I would make all arrangements for the rental car if she would agree to handle the bulk of the wheelwork. In fact, I was able to secure the car almost entirely through my American Express rewards program, cashing in the precious points I had accumulated through my controlled but nonetheless exorbitant credit card spending over the previous seven years.
We approached the clerk at the counter and began filling out the paperwork. As the official renter of the car, I provided my license, etc., and asked if J. could be added to the rental agreement as a secondary driver.
"Sure," he said. "I'll just need your driver's license, ma'am."
At this point, J. instinctively presented her passport, which any law enforcement agent will tell you is not valid as a substitute for a driver's license. As it happens, J. had misplaced her driver's license months prior in Las Vegas, and being an itinerant Metro rider here in Washington D.C., had not been at all motivated to procure a new one.
It probably only took a second, but it felt like several minutes before the fact sunk into my head: I was going to have to do all the driving. Hundreds of miles, on the road, alongside other cars and everything.
Perhaps the clerk noticed my sudden change in mood, or the beads of sweat collecting on my forehead, because he immediately asked if I wanted to subscribe to the optional damage and liability insurance plan. I had already confirmed with my credit card company that I was covered under their supplemental insurance program, but the clerk was not deterred from his sales pitch. At one point, I believe he said "Apersonwhowantstheoptionalinsurancecoveragesayswhat," and noted that, you know, sometimes with these credit card companies, if you don't file an accident report promptly enough, they'll kill your grandmother.
I managed to stand my ground, and he handed me the keys to a white Chevy Malibu, which, if I'm not mistaken, is also a kind of rum. Luckily, the vehicle was equipped with one of those newfangled GPS navigational systems, where an onboard computer figures out the route, and tells you where to turn and when to exit, and never ever yells or slams its imaginary foot on a phantom brake from the passenger seat.
After heading back to the country club for the tail end of the morning-after-wedding brunch, we had planned to make the trip about 30 miles north to Joshua Tree National Park, the inspiration for the classic U2 album "Achtung, Baby." I supplied the achtung on this particular trip, with my white-knuckled trek along Interstate 10 to California Highway 62, in the car following J's aunt and uncle who were camping at the park overnight.
I hate pretty much all driving, but I hate expressway driving in particular, what with the speed and the merging and the signs that totally fail to reassure me unless they say specifically, "Jason, stay in this lane to get to Joshua Tree National Park. Relax. You are a leaf on the wind."
Speaking of wind, one of the eerier sights on our journey to the park was the spectacle of the windmill farms along the San Jacinto valley. Thousands, no joke, thousands of these enormous, three-pronged windmills line the highway for miles, rotating silently in disconcertingly slow motion like something out of a well-made science-horror movie. It was literally breathtaking, and I was only able to get a sense of them; they appeared so hypnotic that I was afraid to do more than give them a peek here and there, lest I be hypnotized by their quiet creepiness and veer off the road at breakneck speed.
We made it to the park in one piece and embarked on the first of several nature hikes. I am not usually a big fan of hikes. To me, it just seems like walking, which could hardly be classified as a leisure activity, plus there's all that nature, which has always had a way of asserting its power over me, perhaps in retaliation for all the times when I peed in bushes. But I must admit that the environment was staggeringly beautiful, with truly exotic foliage, unblemished natural reservoirs, wind-sculpted rock formations and the occasional charming wildlife creature.
J's enthusiasm for the Joshua Tree itself, and its close cousins the California juniper and the singleleaf pinyon, was contagious. She even took plenty of care to admire the desert's smaller citizens, the noble but standoffish cactus. Rubbing the velvety skin of a baby prickly pear, she cooed, "Ooh, that feels so cool!" So of course I gave the small plant a pat on the head, and spent the next half-hour trying to pick approximately billions of microscopic little spines out from under my fingertips.
At the end of our last hike, as dusk was moving in, we stood on a ridge overlooking a vast mesa of nothing but desert grass and contorted Joshua Trees, like a scene lifted from IMAX footage of the Serengeti Plain. At that moment, I was filled with the power of the earth, suffused with its many delicately commingled elements and welling up with the urgent feelings of nature: I had to pee. Luckily there were public facilities, so I didn't have to use a bush.
The drive home was stressful, because if I hate expressway driving, I absolutely loathe expressway driving at night. By the way: when did they stop putting lights on long stretches of highway? In the middle of nowhere, we drivers are relying on the collective candlepower of our own meager automobiles, like it's the 1950s or Canada or something.
J. helped to get me through it, though, and we arrived safely back in La Quinta, where I treated myself to J. treating me to a Dairy Queen blizzard. Yes, it was an unhealthy snack, but in fairness I had been muscle-tensed and perspiring – mostly through my palms – for the previous 45 minutes. It felt like the Lee Iacocca Yoga Program. After dessert, we had a light dinner, and stopped into Albertson's grocery store to pick up some cash and assorted snacks for the car.
Back at the condo for our last evening in unabashed luxury, before our 8:00 a.m. date with the road to San Diego, I caught the last fleeting moments of the Academy Awards and a final soak in the hot tub before doing some laundry – fear strikes again – and getting some sleep.
And I dreamed of sunny weather and slow, straight backroads all the way there.
