IN HEAT

My girlfriend, Geri, was recently named to her company’s Circle Of Excellence. I was excited to learn that, as a Circle of Excellence winner, she had been awarded an all-expenses paid trip for two to sunny Palm Springs, California. I was even MORE excited when I won the coin toss and got to go with. That was a joke. She actually asked me to go, and I’m pretty sure she asked me first.

Anyhow, I know you people are curious, so here is my account of our sunny little adventure.

For the geographically unacquainted, Palm Springs is in the middle of a desert, two hours due east of a tiny town called Los Angeles. Apparently, beneath the dry desert surface, there are a bunch of underground springs that, once tapped, allowed for the rampant spread of golf courses. Left unchecked, the golf course population exploded. Today it is estimated there are more golf courses in Palm Springs than people. Really. (No, not really. This story is going to take a really long time if you insist on questioning every little detail.)

The first thing you notice when you step off the plane in Palm Springs is the temperature. It can get hotter than Rangers pitcher Kenny Rogers in the video camera section at Circuit City. It’s really not a mystery – the land may be irrigated, but it’s still a fucking desert. I should also explain that the term "dry heat" means nothing when the temperature is 106 degrees. Dry heat is no less hot than dry ice is cold.

So we stepped off the plane into the wide-open arms of hell and made our way toward the terminal. A ring of dirt-brown hills surrounded us, rippling seductively behind an invisible wall of heat. They reminded me of those mounds of clay on the set of an old Tonka truck commercial. Crossing the black tarmac I felt like I was passing over a bed of hot coals. I noted there were palms, but no springs. Palm trees are nice to look at, but taking cover in the shade of one is like using a Post-It note as an umbrella. And I would know because I've tried both.

Geri and I hustled inside the terminal where we inhaled the air conditioning like someone had been holding our heads underwater. We then agreed on a strategy.

1.) Upgrade car rental to convertible
2.) Stop somewhere to stock up on booze
3.) Power nap

Motoring toward our lodgings from the airport, a 35-minute drive in blinding sunlight with the top of our rented Sebring down, we noticed that ours was the only convertible to be found. This was not a dubious observation. It turns out there's a good reason people don't drive around in convertibles in Palm Springs, to which my burnt scalp would later testify. Not only is it painfully hot, it’s dangerously sunny. We cranked up the air conditioner so we wouldn’t pass out from heat exhaustion and carried on – two idiot tourists frying fast and furious under a scalding desert sun.

It was around noon when we pulled into the La Quinta parking lot. This is not the same La Quinta Inn at which you may have crashed with the kids for a night on your last interstate vacation. This was a luxurious multi-acre spa and resort; home to somewhere between 42 and 88 private pools (each piece of marketing literature we scanned bragged of a different figure). It also had a fitness center, health spa, golf course, tennis courts (hard, grass, and clay), several restaurants and a plaza full of shopping boutiques for those interested in a little retail therapy.

Rooms were clumped in clusters called casitas that were built around a shared center wall, with individual units that jutted from the center in different directions, allowing for private entrances and patios. Once inside our unit, we immediately mixed a few drinks, turned the air up, and unpacked. Honestly - that's all we did.

Later that evening, Geri’s company sponsored an outdoor reception where we nibbled on cilantro and lime basted shrimp served in martini glasses, and sipped sparkling white wine while mingling with fellow award winners from around the country. I realized that few people knew one another, and it was by virtue of this fact that it dawned on me: I too was in the Circle of Excellence. My true identity as a fantasy sports aficionado, Internet jester, and advertising underachiever was stashed in a dirty hamper hundreds of miles away. Out here I was a celebrated success…and an achiever!

At least I was for the first ten minutes. Introductions out-ed me as Geri’s guest, which led to an entirely different brand of mistaken identity. Because Geri is a beautiful, leggy blonde knockout, and a good 4+ inches taller than me in heels, it was assumed I was her harmless travel companion, Francois – a.k.a. “Geri’s little gay friend.” And the shirt I wore the following night did not help clear things up. That’s all I’m going to say about that.

Geri and I tied on a good buzz that first night and headed back to our air-conditioned cave for a long night’s nap. We kicked off day two by playing a little tennis, and by "little" I mean what we played only remotely resembled the actual game as it was meant to be played. Geri told me she had been quite the competitor back in the day, and I’m no stranger to the sport – so we managed a number of impressive volleys that morning. I should qualify that statement. The volleys impressed US. I don’t think Bjorn Borg would have been impressed. Although we gave each other a good workout, our most formidable opponent that morning was the sun. There was a reason (we discovered after about 10 minutes of chasing down errant swings in the crockpot of the west) that all of the other courts were all vacant. Tennis was not in season in Palm Springs. We ended up calling our match a draw and found lunch.

That night we partook in a lively event called “Casino Night.” It was a company-sponsored mingler designed to get people interacting with one another. Geri and I tied our buzzes to the craps table and tested some betting strategies we’d learned at a craps seminar just a month prior (yes, really). I started out hot, rolling nearly a dozen times without “crapping out.” When I finally did, the company’s CEO, decked out in Tommy Bahama at the far end of the table, grabbed an armful of winnings, pointed at me and announced as he walked away, “I'm not coming back until THAT guy shoots again!” If only I’d been as fortunate. As the night went on, I showcased an unremarkable talent for making everyone else money but me.

On day three, Geri and I hit the spa for some relaxation therapy. She enjoyed a facial while I enjoyed a half-hour massage by Jared Leto, after which I took Geri back to our room in an effort to salvage what was left of my manhood. That evening we attended the awards banquet at which it was announced Geri was the number one Senior Account Executive in her entire company. Her name was met with much applause...and a standing ovation from one particularly dashing gentleman front and center. (Yes, me!) After dodging kisses from two guys named Barry and Barry, she returned to our table with a trophy to mark her achievement. Her little gay friend could not have been more proud.

On day four we enjoyed a big breakfast, took a long dip in the pool, then drove high into the mountains with our rent-a-vertible. It was a relaxing cruise to 5000 feet from which we could see Palm Springs in all of its expansive, sweltering glory. It was during our ascent that I learned of Geri’s distaste for mountain driving. She became so anxious during the cliff-side ascent we had to pull over and switch drivers. Being deathly afraid of heights myself, I had little problem empathizing. But we’re both obstinate wonders, and nothing would stop us from rising to the top!

We pressed on – if slowly. So slowly, in fact, a train of cars lined up behind us as far as the rear view mirror would permit. As leader of the procession, courtesy became a concern. But Geri was quick to remind me that my allegiance was to the woman in the passenger seat with her hands over her eyes – not the string of impatient strangers behind us. At one point she even shouted, “I don't care about all the cars behind us, will you slow down already!” I looked down at the speedometer and noted that we were tearing up the narrow hillside at a scorching 28 MPH.

We eventually settled in, and as our confidence grew we picked up our speed a little until reaching the top. From there we drove on to explore a tiny mountain town nestled in the middle of no where – a quaint little tourist trap called Idyllwild that, despite having nothing to see, nothing to do, and nothing to buy, was jammed with eager vacationers. It was there we enjoyed our finest lunch of the trip before coasting back down the mountain in complete terror.

Our flight was to leave at 7am the following morning, so Geri and I decided to head out for an early dinner and a couple of farewell margaritas. As fortune would have it, we ran into a few of her friends who were also heading off to dinner and were invited to join them. A couple of margaritas quickly turned into five and before we knew it, it was after 11 and we were lit up like the stars... swirling like sparkler fire in the desert sky. It was a fantastic finale to our stay.

After retiring for the evening (and the week), Geri and her “little gay friend” held a private celebration to commemorate the California adventure, the details of which I will spare you other than to say it was a good thing our room had two beds.

We flew back to Chicago the next morning…exhausted, sunburned, and hung over – the three hallmarks of a successful voyage anywhere...