There is something slightly unhinged about ordering a tropical drink garnished with a paper umbrella while standing in a place that receives fewer than five inches of rain a year.

Palm Springs has never been particularly bothered by this contradiction.

For roughly three-quarters of a century, this desert city has cultivated one of America's more improbable fantasies: a Polynesian island dropped into the middle of the desert.

Bamboo. Blowfish lamps. Rum drinks with names that sound like warnings. Flaming torches beside mid-century glass and steel.

It shouldn't work.

It does. But only if you’re able to suspend disbelief.