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Large clumps of ancient trees punctuate the flat darkness. An oasis formed miraculously in an otherwise barren space. Welcome to Two Bunch Palms, a friendly face tells you in the dimly lit entry. Outside, down the flickering pathways, you hear splashes, yelps, rushing water. You remember that line from the America song: In the desert you can’t remember your name and your mind grows curious. What kind of sights will you encounter in the morning? A friend back in Los Angeles mentioned Capone once owned this place, and that Hollywood types used to hide out here when they wanted to disappear. You wonder how much of these characters spirit is still left. In the orange glow of firelight that dots the stone pathways; you see wooden soak tubs and copper faucets stretched out under massive trees. Native Americans stumbled on these hot springs 600 years ago – a breathtaking respite between the palms – and you imagine your reaction – at this late hour, after that week you had– is similar. You breathe in the still desert air, the pungent floral aromas. Your room is cool and comfortable, the bed cloud-like, the vine-draped shower intoxicating. The room fills with steam and you pass out in a towel to the hum of crickets. Tomorrow will be a good day.


Graphic Identity by MIGUEL NOBREGA

Two Bunch Palms

Desert Hot Springs

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