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A Word About the Wind: What every Palm Springs newcomer should know before their barbecue ends up in the pool.
The Wind, Which Has Opinions
The wind in Palm Springs does not arrive.It appears,like an uninvited guest who somehow knows your gate codeand immediately starts rearranging the patio furniture.
At first, it feels refreshing.“Oh good,” you think. “A breeze.”This is how it gets you.
Within minutes, umbrellas are airborne,performing what I can only describe as interpretive danceacross the neighborhood.I have retrieved my own umbrellas from three different yards,none of which I had previously spoken to.Nothing builds community fasterthan yelling, “Sorry, that’s mine!”while dragging canvas wreckage across gravel.
Patio cushions disappear entirely.They do not reappear.They are not found later.I assume they are living better lives elsewhere.
Should we microchip them?like pets,so they can be returned safely?Or are they free spirits now,resettling in a loose-knit commune by the Salton Sea,sitting in a circle,discussing the emotional labor of supporting outdoor furniturethrough extreme weather?
I clean sand from my window sills constantly,despite knowing this is pointless,like flossing during a dust storm.The sand always comes back.It is patient.It has time.
After moving here, I learned a new word: haboob.No one eases you into it.They just say, “Oh, that’s a haboob,”as the sky turns blackand the mountains vanishlike they’ve unsubscribed from the whole situation.
They call the wind Mariah.I just call it annoying.
During these storms, I stay insideand think, Is this what winter is like in the Midwest?Except instead of snow,it’s airborne exfoliationand the creeping sensethat humans may have misunderstood the assignment.
And yet—Sometimes, I like the wind.
On a 120-degree day,when the pool feels less like a pooland more like a bathtub someone forgot to drain,I climb out,stand dripping,and the wind hits my skin.
And somehow—miraculously—It feels cool.Briefly.Like the desert apologizing,just for a moment,before resuming its usual behavior.
I also warn clients about the wind.I feel this is responsible.
“We don’t mind wind,” they say.“We live with chinooks in Calgary!”
I nod politely,as if I know what a chinook is,and wonder privatelyif it is related to a haboobor if we are just naming different waysair can ruin your afternoon.
I suggest other neighborhoods.Less wind.More protection.Gentler living.
“No, no,” they insist."We're okay with the wind."
They are fine with the windright up until they move inand their barbecue ends up in the pool,where it does not belongand has never belonged.
Some of us, however, have decidedthe solution is to outsmart the wind.
This is where the windmills come in.
They stand out there, spinning endlessly,as if nodding along politely:“Yes, yes, very impressive, humans.”We say we are harnessing the wind,turning it into energy,making it useful.
But mostly they just remind usthe wind exists.and is not impressed by our optimism.
Then, suddenly, everything stops.
The calm returns.The light is perfect again.The mountains reappear,posing like nothing dramatic just happened.We forget immediately.
We know earthquakes are inevitable.We know the wind will come back.And still, we plant trees.Still, we build outdoor living spaces.Still, we say things like,“But it’s such a dry heat.”
The wind is not telling us to leave.It’s not that rude.
It’s simply asking us to pay attention.To remember where we are.To respect what this place actually is.And, somehow—against all logic—to love it anyway.
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