The smell of horse shit hung in the air like a nauseating fog as my festival date Kerry and I walked toward the main entrance of the Empire Polo Club grounds for the first day of Coachella’s second weekend. There were only a half-dozen horses in sight, but their collective output plus the day’s triple-digit heat choked the air.
The temperature gauge inside the rental car I drove to Indio read 106. I felt every last degree as I walked to the first porta-potty in sight. I might as well have taken a piss on the sun’s surface.
The week prior to Coachella I vowed to dance my ginger ass off, in spite of the heat. I underestimated its oppressiveness. Fortunately, rivers of bottled water, globs of sunscreen, and an overpriced straw hat saved me from the worst the sun had to offer. And, in no time, I was dancing my ginger ass off, albeit under the festival’s three tents.