Solo, Single, and Slightly Tipsy: A Love Letter to Paul Bar, Palm Springs

By Ersilia Pompilio

There’s something deliciously unhinged about being a solo traveler in Palm Springs. You’re untethered. Unaccountable. Wearing linen at inappropriate hours. And if you do it right—really right—you eventually end up standing in line at Paul Bar, wondering how a line this long can already feel like a party.

Because at Paul Bar, the night starts before you even get inside.

“I just got into town from Ptown.”“I’m here for the season.”“We’ve been partying all weekend—brunch today and I still haven’t gone home.”

These are not whispers. These are declarations. Said loudly. Proudly. Usually to no one in particular. And suddenly you’re nodding along, like yes, of course, that tracks. This is Palm Springs. This is Paul Bar.

Designed by Paul O’Halloran as a full-blown love letter to New York, Paul Bar is dim, moody, and intimate in that way only East Coast bars can be—like a place in Boston that claims to know your name, but doesn’t really. Except here? No one knows your name, and somehow that makes it even better.

Inside, the lighting is dim, the bottles glow like they’ve been styled for a magazine shoot, and the crowd is a perfect cocktail of locals, snowbirds, and travelers who “were only supposed to be here for a weekend” but now own three pairs of loafers and a seasonal rental.

If you’re a solo traveler—or a solo local pretending you’re mysterious—this bar is your playground.

The bar seats are prime real estate. And no, they are not designed for doom scrolling. Paul Bar didn’t come all this way from New York just for you to sit there refreshing Instagram. This place is engineered for conversation. Forced proximity. Eye contact. Commentary.

You sit down with a martini and a book—Dan Brown’s The Secret of Secrets—because you’re cultured, but also killing time. Immediately, the guys you saw outside become your bar mates.

“Stop reading that book. You can’t read a book at the bar,” one of them gawks. He’s been dragging his friend around town all weekend, holding him hostage at every favorite brunch spot and bar. It’s clear. You are now part of the group.

To your left, a couple from Portland, Maine—classic snowbirds. Their drinks: a Manhattan duo.“We love to ski,” the woman says, “but January in Portland is… aggressive. We’re here for a month.” She eyes your book. “You should read The Eight by Katherine Neville. You’d love it.”

Bar book club. Casual. Unplanned. Perfect.

“What are you ordering?” the guys ask, sipping their classic shaken martinis. No olives. Lime twist only. Serious men. Serious drinks.

You order the Cosmopolitan. Obviously.

Pink. Sharp. Iconic.

Vodka, Cointreau, cranberry juice, and freshly squeezed lime. A classic martini with a blush. A drink that knows exactly who she is. Part of the Gimlet family, cousin to the kamikaze shooter, and forever the backbone of a good night out.

And listen—this isn’t just a drink. It’s a statement.

The Cosmo has lore. Drama. A complicated origin story, like any good icon. Some say it traces back to the 1930s with a drink called the Pink Daisy. Others credit bartenders from Minneapolis, Miami, San Francisco, Cleveland, New York—honestly, the Cosmo has been passed around more than a secret at brunch.

There’s strong evidence it was popularized within the gay community in Provincetown, Massachusetts (which feels correct), then refined, reimagined, and perfected over decades. Cheryl Cook in South Beach wanted a drink that looked good in a martini glass. Toby Cecchini and Melissa Huffsmith-Roth brought us the modern version at The Odeon in Manhattan.

Madonna made it global.

Sex and the City made it immortal.

And Paul Bar? Paul Bar makes it right.

This is why the Cosmo hits different here. Maybe it’s the New York DNA. Maybe it’s the way the bartender doesn’t overthink it. Or maybe it’s because you’re surrounded by strangers who feel like temporary best friends.

That’s the magic of Paul Bar for the solo traveler.

You will have conversations. You will be engaged. You will laugh. You might exchange life stories, book recommendations, and brunch intel. And when you leave? They may forget your name entirely.

Which, honestly, is kind of perfect.

Yes, there’s always a line. But like Disneyland (with better martinis and fewer children), it’s worth the wait. Paul Bar never disappoints. It’s a guaranteed good time. A must-stop. A solo traveler’s sweet spot.

Come alone. Leave buzzed. Return tomorrow.

About the Author

Ersilia Pompilio is the Editor in Chief of SQUAD Magazine, a Palm Springs guide for bachelorettes and ladies who love to leisure. Ersilia has over two decades of experience in performing, producing live storytelling shows, and hosting a podcast, she has also taught storytelling classes and written professionally for several media outlets. Originally from Los Angeles, Ersilia is also a twenty-year resident of Palm Springs, California.