A Parting Gift

Years ago, when I was a child and we were separated, my mother sent me a book: The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupery.

It's a frightening book even now, about pain and loss and death (and never mind that I could not even begin to pronounce the author's name), but it was from my mom and I tried to read it. I won't ruin the book or (or the movie) for you, but the story takes place in a desert, and its undercurrent is about the magical nature of children - how they can impart wisdom and understanding without themselves having either.

Perhaps my recent stay in the desert put me in mind of the Little Prince, or maybe it was an incident that occurred when Lee and I went to the movies in Cathedral City's Town Center.

This particular town center looks very much like the kind of dusty desert outpost you'd see in movies like Morocco or Gunga Din, but with an IMAX theater at one end and the Mary Pickford Theatre at the other.

The Pickford Theatre is a replica of the old-style movie palaces of the '20s and '30s. In fact, it is named after one of the most famous stars of the early 20th century (and former Desert resident, along with husband Buddy Rogers), the absolutely tiny Mary Pickford. (I know she was tiny, because one of her former costumes graces a display in a little alcove off the main lobby.)

Pickford, and her handsome then husband Douglas Fairbanks, were among the first generation of Hollywood "royalty." They looked down their noses at their outre daughter-in-law Joan Crawford (or so she thought) but hobnobbed with Russian aristocracy who were then fleeing the horror of the Russian Revolution (and thus were willing to enjoy the company of people they might previously have run down in the street).

In fact, one Russian aristocrat made Pickford the gift of a Faberge egg - not a fancy one - but one with the distinction of having been given to him by Prince Alexei of the Romanov family. It was the tradition, he said, of the Romanovs to give these eggs at Christmastime.

And so, in a display case in a little alcove off the main lobby of the Pickford Theatre in Cathedral City Town Center, is a white porcelain egg, once held by another little prince long ago. Having looked at it and its letter of provenance, we then walked away and out of the building; outside, where the desert night sky was filled with stars that were large and small, but flinty and out of reach, and it was as lonely as any wilderness.

Left on Monty Hall . . .

. . . right on Buddy Rogers. As I cruised in search of a post office (or even a mailbox) in the 100-plus degree summer heat, I reflected that Palm Springs and its surrounding desert cities may comprise the most name-dropping area in the U.S. In addition to the Walk of Fame in downtown Palm Springs, many of the streets are named after the celebrities that made this town their home.

For example, I live close to Gene Autry Trail, which goes over the Gene Autry Bridge, glances past Gene Autry Plaza, and heads out toward I-10. Autry, the Singing Cowboy (1907-1998), was among the first celebrity residents of Palm Springs. Up the street on East Palm Canyon Drive, the Parker Palm Springs, features a private residence that once belonged to Autry, a two-bedroom, two-bathroom detached building with a private entrance way.

From the Parker, you can look up over the other side of Palm Canyon, up to Bob Hope's home on Southridge. The house reflects the desert's iconic avant garde architecture; it's been compared to anything from a mushroom cap to Darth Vader's helmet. (A similar roof shape belongs to the Oceans 111 restaurant in Rancho Mirage.) I've been told that the Hope house is frequently used as a venue for charity events, but I haven't been there myself.

I have, however, been to Frank Sinatra's Twin Palms. When Lee was writing Ava Gardner: Love Is Nothing, we were given a private tour of this surprisingly modest home, with its phenomenal pool and its infamously cracked bathroom sink (reportedly the result of a Frank-Ava contretemps).

Frank Sinatra Drive begins at Palm Canyon in Rancho Mirage, and goes way out there, baby, into the desert. But whenever I go to Palm Desert, I take Gene Autry and turn right on Dinah Shore. Similarly, whenever I go to the airport (to pick up my mother Carol, say), I drive up Gene Autry, go left on Ramon, then make a right onto Kirk Douglas Way, which snakes through the airport, bypassing lots of road traffic. Once, when we were in Palm Springs visiting Lee's friend, the inimitable character actor and notorious potty mouth, Marc Lawrence, he took us on a tour of famous actors' homes - one of which was Kirk Douglas'. It was on a very dark street, and had all its lights out. "He's not home," said Lawrence, adding the usual obscenities. (Thinking back on this, I'm wondering if Marc had forgotten to turn his headlights on.)

Bob Hope Drive, Gerald Ford Drive, Fred Waring Way, the list goes on. In fact, there's an old joke about giving directions around here that my husband told me: "You can stop on Gerald Ford, you can go down on Dinah Shore, but don't ever cross Frank Sinatra."

Tell it to the bathroom sink.