Do you think people who live in sunny weather most of the year are happier than the rest of us? Has there been a study done on this? Just the fact that I have a pretty good idea what the weather will be like on any given day when I'm in Southern Cal is enough to keep me in a stable mood. In New York and most other places, you have no idea from hour to hour what you’re going to be dealing with. Waking up in the morning in the desert was a pleasure in part because one variable had been taken care of for you.
I’m back in windy, 40-degree, unpredictable NYC and not exactly loving it. I was underdressed today, just because I can’t stomach going back to a coat right now—I’m ready for summer to start today. So before I leave Indian Wells behind, let me take a look back at a few odds and ends that didn’t make it into my daily dispatches.
Easter Sunday at the Holiday Inn Pool
I spent a little time at the Esmeralda hotel in Indian Wells and spotted quite a few players, mostly Europeans. Mahut, Gasquet, Youzhny, Ashley Harkleroad, and Juan Carlos Ferrero all wandered through the hotel’s swanky, well-tended expanse. (Ferrero was highly visible at night).
Alas, I was only gawking there, not staying there. I was up the road at the Holiday Inn, which was not as much of a bummer as it might sound. The breakfast was decent (yes, the sausages did have a certain hockey-puck look), and there was a pool. I sat out by it on a couple of mornings—including Easter Sunday—and gathered what sun I could. There were no players in sight, just a few families on vacation. There was a girl reading a novel the way that only young kids can read—bug-eyed and oblivious to everything around her. And there were two young boys playing catch in the way that boys always do—with all the tics of a major leaguer perfectly imitated. There was nothing fancy or even remotely status-oriented about this place, but it felt comfortable to someone who had never spent much time in places like the Esmeralda anyway. I could even deal with the kids screaming “Marco!” “Polo!” back and forth in the pool—OK, that was pretty irritating, but I’d done it myself years ago, so how could I complain? I just shouldn’t have tried to get in the pool. As I was sticking my foot in, someone said, “You might not want to do that, a kid just got sick”—i.e. puked—“in there.”
Beer Huntin'
The Beer Hunter was the local tavern we repaired to each night. It’s a big sports bar with a ton of TVs and a mix of mostly bad music, but after spending hours hunched at a computer, it was all that was necessary. The thought of a having to sit forward in a real restaurant was just too daunting. I also learned that Hoegaarden on draft is a fine thing indeed.
Local Press
Two well-known West Coast sports reporters, Jerry McGee of the San Diego Tribune and Bill Dwyre of the Los Angeles Times always cover IW. Unlike veteran New York sportswriters like Mike Lupica and John Feinstein, each of whom washed his hands of tennis years ago, these guys still have respect for the sport. It’s nice to come to an area of the country where tennis is at least played by a much higher percentage of the population than it is in the Northeast.
McGee has a booming voice—he should have been a country singer—and near the end of Federer’s post-loss presser, he bellowed from the back of the room, “Roger, you weren’t on court that much. Does it feel like you were even here?” Federer eyed him sternly and said, “No, I was out practicing each day. I don’t know where you were, but I was here.” But Jelena Jankovic may have made McGee feel better, telling him she’d be over to his place for “cookies” once she built her house in San Diego.
The Road
I got a white Pontiac Grand rental: not bad. As a New York resident, any car is a good car to me, and it’s a rush to be able to listen to music and drive. Local radio was predictably awful, and I had to scan the dial dozens of times to find something worth hearing. (I recoiled in visible disgust when it landed on the Eagles “Take It Easy.”) There’s nothing quite like hearing a song you like on the radio—the surprise factor, as well as the implied communication with everyone else who’s listening to it at that moment, makes it sound that much better than if you’d just put it on yourself.