It's Ace at the Ace

I am reclining, languid as a lizard, on the canvas- clad balcony of my room at the Ace Hotel ('and Swim Club') in Palm Springs, California. It is 39C but I am comfy in my cotton Djellaba robe in the shade. In the morning I was by the pool experiencing the dubious honor of being double the age of any other swimmer, the only one in a one- piece, apart from a 4 year old girl, and the only cleanskin in sight. Even said child had what I hope was a temporary tattoo.
This place was a Howard Johnson Motel built in the mid 60's but has it been pimped up. It is now Hipster Heaven. It's easy to see the mid century bones of some of the structures. My balcony is but bleak concrete, white stuccoed wall and white painted iron balustrading with peeling, rusty patches, but the metal is wrapped in marine canvas and cord, and so there is shade and privacy. The room is a combo of concrete, 60s furniture, simple but solid plumbing and funky touches like a working record player alongside the radio. No little bottles of stuff either, the minibar is a maxi bar, with full sized bottles of spirits and mixers and snacks, all ready for a party. Big bottles of shampoo etc on the side of the tub whose size and depth beckon me.
I don't know who thought of this all but they got something right. The place is buzzing, there's music in the air, wafting scents of BBQ which I can't partake in, but it's a great atmosphere.
It's like a permanent festival.
So please excuse me as I take my aged untattooed body off for a well-earned massage. It's hard work but someone's got to do it. See you back in Australia, in the real world!