Let's get away from it all: how one couple did Vegas, Death Valley, and Palm Springs in a week—and made it swing, baby

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We've reached Hell's Gate, the central entrance to Death Valley.

Death Valley National Park marks the beginning of our reeducation with the concept of "vast." The park is more than 3 million acres in size. Even obscured by dust, the valley stretches so far that estimates seem futile--10 miles? 50? It's halted at last by the Panamint Range, rising dark and dreamlike on the horizon.

We didn't plan far enough ahead to secure a room at the renowned Furnace Creek Inn; in fact, I only just manage to grab the last available room at the more economical, less upscale Furnace Creek Ranch.

The ranch is a collection of low-slung buildings that make up comfortable-but-nothing-fancy motel rooms, a market, and a cafe side by side with a lounge and steakhouse. There's a large lawn area (incongruously) and a pool. We enter our room and discover why it was the last available: separate beds. "Well, it fits our retro theme," I offer.

After dinner at the Wrangler Steakhouse, we drift out to the lawn, and lie down, beat, in the darkness. The stars flicker as bats flutter past and palms rustle in the wind. Sinatra's in my head, singing,

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  Fly me to the moon
  Let me play among the stars*

and Red, as if hearing, holds my hand.

We rise early for a full day of Death Valley "don't misses," and experience sunrise at the Stovepipe Wells Dunes, a scramble into (and, more significantly, out of) Ubehebe Crater, a tour of Scotty's Castle, and sunset in Golden Canyon.

We leave Death Valley behind the next morning. But a landscape so huge that it swallows mountains keeps us occupied until we reach Baker, 120 miles south of the valley, a crossroads town offering food, gas, and the spectacle of the "world's tallest thermometer" at Bun Boy restaurant.

We've got a long way to go to make Palm Springs, so I let the car run. A desert dream flows past: Joshua trees stand sentry, jackrabbits bolt, rocky peaks rise like islands in a creosote sea.

As has happened with more than one Hollywood celeb, Palm Springs had its time, lost its shine, and is making a comeback thanks to a vibrant gay community in love with the retro charm.

We spend a morning at the fabled Two Bunch Palms Resort in neighboring Desert Hot Springs, enjoying a side-by-side couples massage and Roman tub soak. Our massage therapists are first-rate, but we're under-whelmed by the spa's facilities and decor--best described as Wild West bordello.

The afternoon is spent exploring Palm Canyon Drive's array of vintage furnishing and consignment shops, dreaming of a life in a pad that swings.

Dinner is at Riccio's. Oversize menus, vinyl banquettes, teamsters backslapping each other. We're talking old-school Italian. We cuddle in a corner booth until our dinners arrive. Red slides away from my arm to receive her Linguine alle Vongole. "No, no," protests our waiter, who's worked at Riccio's for 23 years. "Here," he says, and with the grace of a mago, shifts her tableware and places her plate right next to my Petto di Pollo Ripieno alla Toscana. "Ah, amore," he sighs, and leaves us to dine. Old school, friend.