I land in Palm Springs, and even with a quick stop for the date milkshake friends told me I had to try “right off the plane” I’m lying by my hotel pool within an hour. The desert scene around me is beyond postcard: San Jacinto mountain range, blue skies and palm fronds fanning me. Fly Me to the Moon plays on the sound system. Scattered around the deck are copies of Atomic Ranch, a magazine devoted to 1950s and ’60s modernist American homes.
I take off my watch. Less because I’m on vacation than because I’m no longer in the present.