The entire hour, I was glassy-eyed. I was in the presence of one of my author idols, Frances Mayes. She was doing a book reading at Warwick’s in La Jolla for her new book, See You in the Piazza. After painting Italy with her lilting Georgia accent, she moved toward the book-signing table. She stopped and turned toward the crowd. Her eyes met mine.
I’ve been staying close to home lately, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t traveled. I recently went down the rabbit hole to a unique experience in Wonderland. I attended The Mad Hatter’s Ball, a zany event where everyone dressed up (Red Queen approved) and we enjoyed a circus performance with the March Hare balancing on chairs, the caterpillar swinging from silks, and the Cheshire Cat doing some flexible acrobatics.
I am embarrassed to admit this: I could drive to Mexico in 20 minutes from my house…and yet I have only been a handful of times in the nine years I’ve lived in San Diego. My excuses have been many, as you will soon see, but a trip taken with San Diego’s branch of the organization Travel Massive to Valle de Guadalupe in Baja changed my tune completely. Here’s why I put off my trip to Mexico for far too long (and am now kicking myself for waiting):
Just a few miles from the Mid-Century Modern dream that is Palm Springs is Desert Hot Springs, a sleepy little town that struggles with its identity. It still feels mired in the 1950s when celebrities (think: Rat Pack) lounged by the pool and soaked in the hot springs. I can still feel the ghost of Frank Sinatra walking by…