Once I lived in Washington DC. When I needed to see palm trees, I would visit the US Botanic Garden next to the Capitol. When I lived in Ohio, I could go to the Franklin Park Conservatory. But I cannot think of a day that I do not need to see a palm tree.
When visiting Gothenburg Sweden, I realized there was a palm house. Back in the 1800s, they hadn’t invented non-stop flights to the tropics (plus malaria and yellow fever were bummers), so cities, countries, and rich royals built palm houses.
Of course, I needed to visit. Then, I wanted to move in. I wanted to sit at a table, take my morning tea (and my afternoon iced tea). Guests could ring the doorbell. I would greet them, and we would choose one of the wings to sit in (Shall we visit the Mediterranean garden today?). I would build a pool so I could swim under the palms.
Not that it is practical to live in a palm house. Even in Sweden, the sun was creating an oven. Even sunrooms in Midwestern houses are often uncomfortable. Baking in summer. Freezing in winter. And in the fall and spring, I would rather be outside. There are other practicalities. I would need some gardeners, of course. I don’t want to take care of it on my own.
Humidity would make things mold. Our TV would rust from the inside out. Cereal would get soggy. I would get a fungus. But if little girls can dream of castles, I can dream of a palm house.