A sigh is just a sigh.
Totally agree with the NYT article on feelings of sadness and disbelief… so fuck that.. will instead go down memory lane to those laissez faire days of my early twenties.
Arrived in Palm Springs, 1992 to work at Daddy’s v. fabulous boutique hotel and restaurant the Villa Royale "free spirited hideaway, with design minded rooms, colorful décor and unique amenities." Far from the madding crowd.
Supposed to be a post college gap year… helped with events… sorta…fired every day for taking too many swim breaks… PR lady must have been thrilled to have boss’s daughter as an assist.
Hotel had a fleet of cars including two classic convertible cadillacs (one red and one powder blue) to ferry guests to and from PS airport, which was mostly private then… drove like boats… just had to point and hope for the best.
Cast of characters including mad French maitre d called Philippe who buzzed around on coke… Chef Guillaume (who used to work for Mitterrand) and his wannabe pop star girlfriend Lamborghini… or maybe it was Ferrari... she looked like Jennifer Lopez and was a groupie at the bar every night… and Rod, the bartender, who wasn’t exactly who Dad imagined when he hired him over the phone because of his deep Louisiana drawl…he was more Rod Stewart and wore tight acid washed jeans and winked at me a lot.
Over 20 college friends came to visit that year, four or five at a time… we lay around at the other pool smoking Marlborugh Menthols, drinking six packs, and eating water melon.. took epic road trips to Vegas, Death Valley, and Grand Canyon...pilled into an old Jeep Wagoneer with wood paneling and stayed in shady motels with vibrating beds.
Absolutely loved the heat…tall palm trees, magical sunsets, and the backdrop of the mountains…took a black and white photography class at College of the Desert... shot nudes of my friends and learned how to develop them ol’ skool.
Harold Robins, Za Za Gabor, Barbara Sinatra, Gregory Peck all dined at the swanky restaurant…Harold Robins used to beckon me over as he was in a wheelchair and ask me to sit on his lap… he was a lip kisser…I was horrified but obliged.
At one point, Daddy had three or four chihuahuas that trotted around the grounds... he would scoop them up and put them in his breast pocket or take them out in a basket…he wore cravats and a monocle… there was more than one unique amenity.
The vision was Casablanca…the reality was Faulty Towers.