My heart drops for the chubby girl who is already carrying most of the bags for the group. I smile warmly at her.
Have you ever noticed there’s always a Gretchen in a bridal party or group of friends? The pleaser? The one who will do anything and everything—even sacrifice her dignity—to make the group not only happy but functional?
I glance at Teddy, laughing and posing.
I am the Gretchen.
“I’ll take the photo,” I say.
And there is nothing wrong with that as long as you’re shown a little damn respect.
Gretchen melds into the group, uneasily at first, but I wait until she finally smiles.
“Got it!” I say.
When everyone on the bus is seated, I ask them to put in their earbuds, and I turn on my mic.
“Welcome to Modernism Week!”
Those on the bus—young and old—applaud.
“You may proceed, Donna,” I say.
“You got it, Boss Man,” Donna says into my mic as the bus pulls out of the parking lot of the Hyatt and onto a backstreet. Donna has been driving the double-decker bus for my tours during Modernism Week since the ’90s.
“What a shocking surprise!” Teddy said when I introduced him to Donna this morning. “A lesbian bus driver!”
I begin my spiel.
“Mid-century modern architecture is about stripping away unnecessary ornament. The spaces reflect the optimistic post-war era and focus on clean, straight lines...” I pause as Teddy laughs and mouths “straight, my ass!” but push on after shooting him a death stare “. . . as I was saying, clean, straight lines, simple forms and—most importantly—the seamless integration of indoor and outdoor spaces. It’s about being at one with nature. When you look at homes and buildings today, focus on the unifying characteristics including flat roofs, large windows, and the use of materials like wood, glass and metal.”
The bus edges close to the mountains. The streets begin to narrow and wind in all different directions.
“Welcome to Old Hollywood!” I say. “The neighborhoods we are about to drive through embody the Golden Era of Hollywood Homes: Old Las Palmas, The Movie Colony, Little Tuscany, Vista Las Palmas. Throughout the decades, these were the homes or second homes of stars like Elizabeth Taylor, Kirk Douglas, Cary Grant, Judy Garland, Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell, Liberace, the Reagans, Elvis and Priscilla, and... Zsa Zsa Gabor.”
I see Teddy’s, Barry’s and Sid’s heads pop up.
“Yes,” I say, as if only to them, “we are blessed to be in the midst of history and elegance.”
They smile. I continue, still looking in their eyes.
“As we make our way through these magnificent estates, imagine yourself living here. What would that be like?” I pause to let that question sink in. “The beauty of a double-decker bus tour is that you get a glimpse over the hedges and into the homes of those who came before us and those who seek to preserve such beauty.”
The bus ends up in front of Frank Sinatra’s original Twin Palms home in the Movie Colony neighborhood.
“Ol’ Blue Eyes,” I say.
Most on the bus—i.e., those of a “certain age” (read: older than dirt)—sit up like kids, showing more excitement for thisstop than any other on the tour. If you are of thiscertainage, then when I utter “Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack,” you instantly think of Palm Springs. Not only did their music define the era of old Hollywood glamour, Sinatra and his friends defined the desert.
However, if you are of a certain age—read: younger than thirty—you likely think of Coachella and all the stars from the Kardashians to Leonardo DiCaprio who have made Palm Springs hip again.
The gay couple and bridal party on the bus have no idea whose house this is when I say “Ol’ Blue Eyes.” I might as well be saying “typewriter,” “rotary phone,” “dial-up.”
Or Cher.
“Frank Sinatra,” I say. “The iconic singer and actor.”
Finally, they nod.
