I arrive in Palm Springs to the raging heat of the desert. The temperature is 85 degrees Fahrenheit, the sky is eye-squintingly sunny, and the allergies that have been plaguing me for weeks in New York have miraculously disappeared. This town is a haven for retirees, bachelorette parties, post-Coachella hangovers, and now me. In fact, I’m here to mingle with a roving pack of skateboarders to get a little taste of how the other half (as in people untethered to desk jobs) live. I might be in the desert for a few days, but I’m looking to touch some grass—to get off the internet and hang IRL.
The whole reason I’m here is Curren Caples. The 29-year old Vans skateboarder, who has been a part of the Vans team since 2008, has gathered his friends and family for a few days to celebrate the launch of his sneaker collaboration. Curren, like you might expect from someone who grew up on the coast of California—Ventura to be exact—is tan and lanky, his sandy hair has the signature blond-tinged tips that comes from days spent in the sun and salt water. Unsurprisingly I guess, he looks a lot like a few of my surfy ex-boyfriends.
Like me, Curren is feeling a little jaded by the whole social media machine. “I used to not care about anything that I was posting, it was fun,” he tells me. “Now I just feel like a brand.” Yet, while I continue to post all my silly little life updates despite my distaste for the obligation of being online, Curren is taking the more elusive approach. “I don’t really like that much attention,” he explains. “I think if you see a lot of somebody, it just kind of ruins the allure.” Okay, that sounds like further motivation to quit my Reddit doom scrolling for a few days and live in the moment.
TUESDAY
A 6 a.m. flight out of JFK whisks me away in the dark, but I arrive in Palm Springs to the blinding sun and call myself an Uber, sunglasses on immediately. Unlike New York, drivers here love to chat… great. My head is throbbing as the wind makes that annoying thumpy buffeting noise against the little black Civic, so I roll down my window to fix it. “How did you get the noise to stop?” my driver asks. Somehow, it’s not even noon and I’ve already given a physics lesson.
I arrive at the appropriately-named Arrive hotel, modern and sharp, made of iron and cement. My first order of business: an iced almond milk latte. As a millenial, I dutifully order an avocado toast (this one doused in chili oil and marmalade—??—a combo that was surprisingly fine). I know my goal while I’m here is to log off, but there are bills to pay. I answer emails, trying to knock my work out for the day so I can lounge by the pool for a few hours. Once my room is ready, I get my first look at Curren’s sneakers, which are waiting for me by the bed. I’m historically a slip-on checkerboard girl, but these red and black lace-ups are actually pretty cool looking—sporty, with contrast stitching and a thick outsole.
Since it’s a free day, I wrap up work, lounge for a few hours, then finally wind down by taking myself across the street to a hipster diner called The HeyDay. They have a martini and burger special, but that’s a bit much going into a few days of heavy celebrating. Instead, I get a salad topped with a generous hunk of fried chicken. Balance. I head back to my room and manage to squeeze in an episode of Gilmore Girls before I doze off at a geriatric 9:30 pm (I’d been up since 4 a.m. New York time, so cut me some slack.)
WEDNESDAY
I wake up before the sun at 5 a.m., but the coffee shop doesn’t open until 7 a.m. I lay in bed and triage my inbox, then decide to go for a sunrise jog—it’s so dry that I don’t sweat. I move slowly, hiding in the patches of shade as the sun climbs higher into the sky. I run by Elvis’ house and Liberace’s (the latter complete with a piano-shaped mailbox). I’m reminded of the Don’t Worry Darling drama as I wind through the streets, did Harry Styles really spit on Chris Pine? I get back to my room after a solid 30-minute jaunt and count down the minutes until I can get a cold brew in hand.
Caffeinated and chipper, I get the chance to talk to Curren. He’s a Millennial/Gen Z cusper—born in 1996—but his vibe is shy, playful, and young. Along with shoes, he’s gifted me a bottle of his favorite hot sauce, Satanic Drain Cleaner. He walks me through his inspiration in designing the shoe, along with the accompanying ad, a play on the Dior Sauvage commercial with Johnny Depp. “I’ve stood at LAX so many times, flying out watching that ad,” he explains. “I want to do something making fun of how [hilarious] those ads are.” In tandem, he also designed a signature scent complete with a scratch-and-sniff ad in Thrasher. “ I’m allergic to so many plants, and when I was smelling all these different things, I was like I think I have to stop before I have a full allergy attack.” When I spray it on my wrist, I get notes of rubber, asphalt, and fresh grass. Fitting, though I wouldn’t say I’m seducing anyone but a skateboarder if that’s my signature scent.
I have to be honest, a life spent surfing and skateboarding seems pretty chill to me. But in talking to Curren, the pressures of a pro-athlete encroach on even the most relaxed of vibes. To blow off steam, he’s been golfing. “I used to have surfing as something that distracted me, and then I got pretty good at it,” he explains. “Now, I put pressure on myself, and I’m in the public eye doing it as well. With golf there’s no pressure.” It’s nice to hear he’s taking the whole “touch grass” thing quite literally with his visits to the putting green.
Post-chat, I head to the Colony Palms for a lunch of niçoise salad, table fries, and a spritz. It’s sunny and warm, life is good. It’s 100 miles from the Pacific Ocean, but the plan for the evening is to surf. We head to Palm Springs Surf Club for the Martini Masters, a wave-pool surf competition that involves chugging two martinis (vodka with a twist) before hopping in the water to ride the machine-generated waves. Before the serious surfing begins, I take a chance to hop on a board myself (YOLO). I’m not a good surfer, I don’t manage to stand up in my 20-minute sesh, but the rush of getting spun around in the water a few times makes me feel alive. Shivering in my little Pucci bikini, I head straight for the hot tub, which is conveniently located in prime surf competition view. I sip a few tequila sodas and watch the pros do their thing. Eventually, the night winds down, and I head back to bed—tonight I made it to 11.
Thursday
I have yet to post on Instagram. I’m spending my trip incognito inspired by Curren and in an attempt to live in the moment. I’m up early again, and I’m loving the routine of getting my work out of the way so early. You can live a whole day by 9 a.m. if you start at 5. Once coffee is available, I’ve got a dirty chai in hand, and I sit by the pool to read and spend a little time lying out in the sun. I order a club sandwich with fries and fuel up before I spend the afternoon thrift shopping. Palm Springs is known for not only the mid-century architecture made famous by Slim Aarons, but also the shopping—MCM furniture and second hand clothes especially. I pop by a handful of shops full of Saarinen chairs and Baughman coffee tables and contemplate a way to bring home a $400 inflatable chair (turns out it’s on Amazon). At Mitchells Palm Springs I try on a few pieces by Pucci and Prada, but sadly nothing fits quite right.
Now, for the evening activity. I’m loaded onto a shuttle bus, a High Noon in hand, and taken out to the desert where Vans has set up a pair of half pipes nestled into sandy cliffs. A crane suspends a glass chandelier overhead. The skaters are immediately off to do their thing. Curren is up first, flipping his board and grabbing air (I am not a skateboarding expert so please excuse my lack of technical terms here). I feast on mini lobster rolls. The cocktail menu consists of just bloody marys and espresso martinis, these feel extreme in very different ways, and I opt for champagne instead. Whoever is getting drunk on bloody marys, good luck on the bus ride back. It feels a little bit like I’m at a wedding, minus the fact that everyone is in sneakers. A string quartet plays top-40 hits as the sun sets over the dunes. The skating and mingling continue until it gets dark. The Vans team gathers everyone to congratulate Curren, and they debut his new skate part, a short video of tricks that he makes look easy, but according to the editor sitting next to me are “super tricky.” The wind starts to pick up, and we load into the sprinters and make the 45-minute drive back to Palm Springs.
I’m in the first wave to make it to the after party, and after a dutiful 10 minutes of waiting, my hunger, and the knowledge of a 4 a.m. flight for my return home, start to pull me back towards my hotel. Just as karaoke starts to pick up, I call it a night. Gen Z may be partying less, but this crew knows how to rage. Once I’m home, I snack on the popcorn in my room and pack up as I tap through Instagram stories to see what I’ve been missing at home. I think I’ve touched enough grass for now.