Palm: A Tree in Four Seasons, Part II. Summer and Fall

Summer Palm:
With Celtic skin (and the ability to sunburn through car windows and long sleeve shirts) Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic was not really a good idea. But, I suppose I wasn’t really thinking; I was, after all, 18 and the decision came out of some conversation with my father that ended with my yelling “I hate you!”

When I left for the Dominican Republic (which at the time was on the constant verge of war, military coup, and the possibility of the U.S. Marines being called in) all of this seemed no worse than my parents’ house after a bottle of Stolichnaya and my father in one of his Billy Holiday moods. My father obviously disapproved of my career path, because when I left for my soon-to-be-glamorous-life as a Club Med hostess, selling bar beads and cigarettes to New Yorkers in a desperate hurry to have a good time, he wouldn't talk to me. I took his silence to mean he wasn't happy with me. I guess he would have preferred me to take over the resort wear line, schlepping caftans across the Midwestern territory in a minivan- yet, somehow, cocktails, windsurfing, and Frenchmen (and being far away from him) held greater appeal than working for him.

Punta Cana’s beaches have lime green palms, like they haven’t quite ripened yet, with coconuts just as pastel and soft. For a Dominican dollar, men-boys, with smiles that make you treat them like children, would climb the trees with an agility that proves evolutionary theory. They would return with the green ball newly picked, presenting it with the same command as a sommelier would a pricey Cabernet. “Is this coconut to your liking?” they asked with their eyes. Then taking it back and pulling out a fierce machete that inspired awe and terror and reminded me that these men were not children. Then they would hand me the ungainly Big Gulp. I would try to slurp out the watery contents, which were always disappointing. I always hoped that it would taste like the coconut milk that comes in a can, all thick and creamy. Instead it was a little like water that been stored in a coconut. But I kept on buying them anyway; it was either that or buy the Haitian paintings, or the amber jewelry, or buy nothing--- and I couldn’t do that.

I returned home after I discovered that Club Med attracted alcoholics and sex addicts; and then there was the problem with the creepy French guy in the animation department who didn’t understand what “no” meant. This place was way too much like home; only it was hot, with no air-conditioning, TV, or privacy, and it involved my getting up early in the a.m. and putting on a bikini and a pareo and singing “C'est bon por la moral” when people arrived and departed. I didn’t have to sing wacky songs for my parents’ arrivals and departures; however, there were special outfits required. “If you want that new car, change out of that God awful sweater.”

Fall Palm:
I once heard Gore Vidal talking about our cultures fear of definitive and declarative statements. "We tip toe," Vidal said, "we modify." We dance around. We are afraid to just say what we really think without using modifiers. Gore would have enjoyed my father.

“Fall is not a season. Fall is not resort. People stay home in the fall. Can’t get those God damn people out of their houses, sitting home carving pumpkins, wearing sweaters. I hate sweaters. Sweaters are not resort.” I didn’t dare mention Aspen as that was not his end of the resort world- there are no palm trees in Aspen. The only non-palm tree zone that was safe to mention is "Cruise." But actually, if you look, there are palm trees on cruise ships, dwarf palm trees. Just ask him.

When I first got married, I lived in Vegas for a year, and I noticed that people came to Vegas all year round and it is a resort of sorts. Vegas has great palms. Its like an open casting call of palms-- it has every kind: Tall skinny palms, with show girl trunks, next to squat cigar stubs of dwarf palms, next to impressive sprays of fountain-like palms with awesome branches that at night light with twinkling fairy lights that get lost against the excess of the Strip. There were even old growth palms that had been there since Bugsy Siegel standing next to Steve Wynn palms that were new generation Vegas.

My first week in Vegas, in September, I took a walk, wanting to get out of the mess of boxes, unpacking, and fatigue. I walked, wishing for the fall of even Southern California, but I was really wishing for was the mythic fall, and real trees, not these relentless palms, lined up and down the streets. I was getting lost in reverie, imagining my beautiful life in New England. My cute little house would be surrounded by trees, lots of trees, old growth trees. And I would have a garden, and I would wear sweaters. We would tap maple syrup from our maple tree and have pancakes for dinner by the fireplace.

I looked up and I was back in Vegas and it was 104 degrees and I was lost and hot and burnt and my instincts were telling me to lie down on the concrete...I kept walking, palm after palm, and master planned community after community… I lived on Sahara, but Sahara and what, and what hotel streets run into each other, and all these streets look alike, and all of these trees look alike, they give no shade, there is no shade in Vegas. I walked and walked until… I had heat exhaustion, and I was dizzy and goofy and did not have an understanding of the Las Vegas sun and so I eventually ended up at Applebee’s ordering countless glasses of lemonade.

My strategy was to sit there and drink as much lemonade as it took until I could remember my husband’s work phone number or, the name of his company or if they demanded payment tell them I had heat exhaustion and then the police would get involved. Fortunately, the combination of the delightful lemonade, the friendly wait staff, the air-conditioning, and the most comfortable booth I have ever experienced brought back to recognition my husband’s place of employment. I called; he came and cashed out my $5.50 bill and took me home to my apartment full of confusion and chaos, boxes and mess. As soon as I walked in the door I turned the air conditioner to a Vermont daytime high of 50 degrees, turned on the kettle for some cocoa with marshmallows, switched on my gas burning fireplace and put on a cashmere cardigan.

Picture of Vegas palms from here.

Part One of the Palms is here.