My last afternoon of vacation and I am writing this on my patio in the shade at the Ace Hotel in Palm Springs, where I've been the last several days. Before that I was in Los Angeles for the weekend. Lots of work and social things, too, and also plenty of long, languorous days by myself, which was the idea. Such a special, charmed week in every way, start to finish, that I wouldn't know where to begin in terms of highlights... the effortlessly perfect Valentine's Day spent chillaxing with my pal Mr. Jules et Jim (stargazing in Malibu!) would have to be one, and, well, this very moment would be another. This week at the Ace has been rejuvenating. The vibe here is exactly my speed: I sleep in, eat right, visit the photobooth in the lobby and hang around the pool, with microcosmic daily variations on those rituals. And it's just my luck that this week is Modernism Week in Palm Springs, so there have been all sorts of things going on around town. I'm lazy, though, so the vintage Airstream show at the hotel today is the only thing I've done. And by "done" I mean walked by on the way to get a grilled cheese. If I had more time, I'd check out the John Lautner show at the Palm Springs Art Museum, but I did go to a party at a Schindler house in LA, so I'm feeling good about my engagement with architecture. Now to drift back in my room and put another record on, and decide if Movie Night & s'mores is the thing to do tonight or something else (although, after my big evening out last night for pâté, filet mignon and Crêpe Suzette –– and the total princess-baby treatment –– at Melvyn's at the Ingleside Inn, where past guests include Greta Garbo, Rita Hayworth and Liz Taylor, "something else" might be bed at nine)...
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