The Historic Palms of Ithaca

According to the Ithaca Journal, the seedy establishment known as the Palms is under consideration to be designated as one of Collegetown’s Historic Buildings. If so designated, the Palms would become the first Historic Landmark where it is customary to pee in the sink.

We’ll ignore for a second the irony of historicizing an establishment where so much is forgotten on a nightly basis. Even in the student ghetto of Collegetown, the Royal Palm Tavern – as it is more formally known – remains one of the ugliest buildings for miles. Yes, the yellow façade and small circular windows are certainly unique. But if the Palms was juuuuust a bit farther away from Cornell than its current location, it would rival the now-defunct Crooked Board for “Place Where You Are Most Likely to be Beaten to Death with a Hammer while the Bartender Smiles and Turns Up the Jukebox.”

I say this with all due respect because I love the Palms and still miss the hell out of it. The thing is, the place is an absolute dump. Like I alluded to before, it is usually impossible to use the toilet, on account of the dozens of bottles stacked inside it like a perverse Jenga tower. The pool table had potholes. The bar tables broke if you stepped on them and started stomping to “Baba O’Riley” (And really, who knew?). The layout itself was maddeningly mingle-unfriendly – every night featured people jams that rivaled the most congested roads of a Calcuttan rush hour. For small girls, the easiest way to get from Point A to Point B was to climb up the taller people and cruise around on shoulder tops. Those of us who are generously proportioned had to take a deep breath, square up, and start throwing shoulders.

See, a dive like Dunbar’s had its charms. A dump like the Palms had very little going for it. The Palms was ugly, loud, crowded, hot, and expensive. Drinks invariably cost more as the night went on. The line was always artificially inflated and was managed by the owner himself, who was clearly a graduate of the Gestapo's Course on how to run a Soviet Bread Line.

And yet, despite all these shortcomings, we always kept coming back to the Palms. Someone once called it the abusive husband of Ithaca bars. It sucked and we would probably be better off without it. Yet something about it always had Cornellians crawling back. It's inexplicable, really. I guess it hurt us because it loved us.

That, I guess, coupled with celebrated events known to have taken place there -- the epic post-Sun Banquet three-hour Flip Cup tournament and the night of the bottomless free pitchers come to mind -- earn the Palms its historic designation. Well earned.