Dreams die fast and hard in the desert, they say. But in Palm Springs, I’d say they’re made. The Parker’s one of those transportive places that feels eerily magic, almost surreal, with the bygone beauty of an old Hollywood film or a perfectly staged image lensed by Slim Aarons. Days are spent lazing by one of the salt pools followed by a leisurely spot of croquet (or table tennis if you’re willing to sweat), dining under a canopy of palms and nursing a cocktail at any hour including breakfast, darling.
Evening is another story. To lose yourself in a woven labyrinth of immaculately manicured rising hedges and snaking pathways is the only way to happen upon the hidden enclaves and secret delights of this desert oasis. Palms webbed with hammocks, a fire pit encircled by a wall of ferns, unlit meeting nooks that feel strangely illicit. Steeped in history and Hollywood nostalgia, it’s one place where the mundane stands not a chance in the face of such storybook romance. Hyperbolic? Maybe. But can you blame me, I’ve just been to The Parker. Time stops in the desert, and if you’ve found yourself here, you’ll be glad it did.