The Mystique That Draws the Presidents

Drive past Palm Springs, going down the valley, and you will soon come to Rancho Mirage. Turn left on the boulevard named for Frank Sinatra, keep going to the intersection of Bob Hope Drive, and then you will see it.

Actually, you won’t see “it.” What you will see are the armed guards, the fences topped with three strands of barbed wire, and the rows of trees that are designed to keep you from being witness to anything, great or small, that happens within the confines of the Annenberg estate. Whatever secret qualities made this place the San Simeon of its age are not for your eyes.

But the proof of its allure will be demonstrated again tonight. Catch the evening news and you will see yet one more President of the United States making his ritualized arrival at the gates. This time it will be the Bush motorcade gliding down the boulevard, car lights blinking, little American flags flying from the fenders. The limos will turn into the compound, the iron gates will open, and the procession will disappear inside.

There is no other private residence in the world that performs this function. Before Bush, Reagan came twice a year, before Reagan there was Ford and before that there was Nixon. In between it was Queen Elizabeth and Prince Charles, who tried to hit polo balls from a golf cart.

This time Bush has come to the estate to meet with the new Japanese prime minister, Toshiki Kaifu. They will hold “trade talks,” and maybe play a little golf on the nine-hole course inside the estate. On Saturday the iron gates will reopen, out will come the limos, and the Annenberg estate will settle back into the quiet of the desert, its mystery intact.

We have watched this scene re-enacted so often on television that the Annenberg estate has become part of the cultural background, almost invisible. Anchor people say “Annenberg estate” the same way they say “Camp David.” We do not ask, anymore, why a Philadelphia millionaire would plop himself down in the California desert and, more remarkable still, manage to have the world come to his door rather than vice versa.

Sunnylands, it’s called, and there is a story there. When Walter Annenberg decided he wanted a place in the desert back in 1961, he did not simply buy someone else’s creation. He purchased 205 acres of raw sand at the edge of town and set about transforming it to a private Arcadia.

He succeeded, probably beyond his own original vision. The golf course is said to be one of the most handsome anywhere. When a first-time visitor came to play several years ago, Annenberg instructed him not to bother replacing his own divots. Sure enough, as the round began, the visitor noticed an Annenberg retainer following the group at a discreet distance, retrieving each clump of grass thrown into the air by their clubs.

It is said that inside the estate the only sounds come from the cormorants and egrets nesting on the small lakes. In the main house hangs one of the foremost art collections in the world. On a given evening you can walk to the dining room and pass more Cezannes and Van Goghs than Sotheby’s will see in a decade.

Even the water is special. When Annenberg bought the property, he realized that his aquatic needs would be substantial, so he purchased the company that owned the underground rights. Private wells now supply the swimming pool, the golf course, the lakes and ponds.

Of course, mere luxury does not explain why this particular piece of real estate has become a magnet for one President after another. There are many billionaires, and many estates.

But there are not many contained universes. There are few places, no matter how expensive, that can provide such a shield from the rest of us, the air of mystery and seclusion, as these particular 205 acres. Once, when an aide to former President Reagan was asked by a reporter why his boss spent so many apparently blissful days at Sunnylands, he replied, “because you’re not there, and you can’t get there.”

Maybe that gets to the essence of Sunnylands. What we have here is a place, planted in the sands of Rancho Mirage, that has the power to infuse its guests with the trappings of royalty. Outside there may be murder and mayhem in the streets, but inside there is Arcadia and peace. A place where the normal rules don’t apply.

A neat trick, if you are Walter Annenberg. So neat that Presidents and princes can’t resist, and the limos continue to line up, one after the other.