Microblog

On my neighborhood walk, found another Liberace house. For some reason this one made me think of a funeral parlor. Over the years he owned four homes in Palm Springs.

On my morning walk past bars open to the sidewalk, people were getting a head start on St. Patrick’s Day celebrations.

A stream bed had come to life, cutting short our short walk. Recent rains have made any trail that crosses an arroyo (a normally dry creek) suspect. We backtracked and drove back into town to share a grilled cheese sandwich washed down with IPA.

When you’re staying in a desert, you don’t expect to look out the window and see a rainbow. But there it was this morning.

Finalized details for picking up a car tomorrow. Rather than renting through a traditional car rental company, we’re renting peer-to-peer via the Turo app. Blue Betty (the car) will be waiting for us in a parking lot; we’ll find the key in a lockbox in a wheel well.

Lying low feels good while we both wait out stubborn colds. A 10-minute walk to a cafe for coffee and Madeleines provided a sufficient sense of accomplishment. We’d rather be up on the trails, but our bodies say otherwise.

On my neighborhood walk, “an Americano for here” became “un Americano pour ici” in Café mon Amour where all the staff speak French. Edith Piaf sang her heart out while I lingered.

Deicing fluid battered the fuselage at MSP, en route to Palm Springs.

In Minneapolis I lay on the couch, grouchy, nursing a cold, periodically flushing out radiation. From Palm Springs Dwight remotely watered our apartment garden. The plants look good to me, but doubtless he’ll see issues when we both return to Minneapolis at the end of the month.

Nibbled cookies a friend brought over, drank vast quantities of water (doctor’s orders) and looked out at falling snow.

Got the first of four radioactive infusions. For a few days there’s no kissing or flying, which is easy, as I’m in Minneapolis and Dwight’s in Palm Springs. When I do return to Palm Springs, I may set off an airport radiation detector, which could be interesting.

Posted My Atomic Superpower.

On my walk, looked around a hotel populated by conventioneers who may never leave the property except to fly home. I can enjoy a night or two in a place like this, but it’s poor value: I don’t sit by pools or play golf or want to overhear business jargon.

On my walk, two women asked me to point them towards celebrity homes. I waved towards Marilyn Monroe’s (shown here) and Liberace’s, then helped them install an app that gives map and verbal directions to a bunch of homes. They continued their walk, now with purpose, squealing with delight.

On my urban walk: refueled at a donut shop where I had a nice chat with the person ahead of me in line while her order for seven dozen assorted donuts was being fulfilled one-at-a-time; guilted by Girl Scouts to buy cookies; filled my large backpack at a supermarket.

Today’s walk took me: under “The Bridge of Thighs” connecting two halves of a nudist resort; later, a front yard the artist/homeowner filled with huge, garish, improbable sculptures made from found objects; next, a block away, Twin Palms, Frank Sinatra’s forever cool former home.