Geographically, it's a 45-mile desert valley in Southern California, home to the cities of Palm Springs and Indio and, apparently, lots of fossilized conchillas.
And musically, it's the only place to be the final weekend of April—North America's most respected music festival coming off its eighth edition last Friday through Sunday.
It's a place where temperatures routinely top 100 degrees, and 60,000 daily attendees hardly complain about the heat.
It's a place where two 12-hour days wasn't near enough music, so this year's event expanded to three.
It's a place where you can hear "Don't Dream It's Over" by just-reunited '80s outfit Crowded House meld into a cover of Kate Bush's "Running Up That Hill" by Brit rockers Placebo while walking 500 yards, and catch a smidge of ex-Jurassic 5 turntable whiz Cut Chemist performing in a dome along the way.
It's a place where you can be disappointed by a favorite band (noise-rock vets Sonic Youth, whose volume was too demure and whose setlist was too forgettable) and wowed by a group you'd previously written off (electro-popsters Hot Chip, whose energy, panache and sly insertion of Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes" and New Order's "Temptation" into their own music kept a steamy, packed tent moving).
It's a place where you can buy 16-ounce bottles of water for $2, or trade in 10 empty bottles for one new one.
It's a place where you can watch an Icelandic superstar dressed like a mushroom (Bjork), backed by an all-female vocal/horn crew that might have made free-jazz eccentric Sun Ra blush.
It's a place where a band can play its ass off, sound superb and still be considered a mild disappointment, when that band is the Arcade Fire and has to compete with the memory of its own 2005 coming-out party at the same festival.
It's a place where two teens can enjoy Wu-Tang rapper Ghostface on an outdoor stage, then wander into the dance tent and become entranced by French electro-house DJ duo Justice, mixing music live for the first time ever.
It's a place where you can see around 40 acts, and miss out on more than twice that many.
It's a place where one of the world's foremost hip-hop groups (The Roots) can play a huge chunk of its set sans rap, setting the lyrics to Bob Dylan's "Masters of War" to the tune of "The Star Spangled Banner," segueing into Jimi Hendrix's "Machine Gun" and then returning for the conclusion to its bone-chilling take on "Masters."
It's a place where Manhattan disco-punk king James Murphy (LCD Soundsystem) can work a giant tent into a frenzy simply by repeating the word "Yeah!"
It's a place where long-awaited reunions can come off both ragtag ("Madchester" throwbacks The Happy Mondays) and transcendental (ace shoegazers The Jesus and Mary Chain, pelting the main-stage mob with walls of thick sound, augmented briefly by unnecessary-but-still-kinda-cool backing vocals from Scarlett Johansson).
It's a place where at one moment, you can choose between Dutch trance DJ Tiësto; mostly British supergroup The Good, The Bad The Queen; New York dance-punk quartet The Rapture; Ohio blues-rock duo The Black Keys; and Japanese avant-pop artist Cornelius.
It's a place where you can find yourself dancing to the techno-rock of Digitalism between a tattooed punk sporting a red mohawk and a VIP chair holding Paris Hilton.
It's a place where you can witness uber-hyped acts living up to their buzz (Smashing Pumpkins-esque LAers Silversun Pickups) or barely holding a curious crowd's attention (British youngsters Arctic Monkeys).
It's a place where "Hey everyone, here comes the choo-choo!"—from the mouth of Comedians of Comedy stand-up Zach Galifianakis—can become the cool catch phrase you'll probably soon be hearing on the New York subway platform.
It's a place where New Pornographers frontman Carl Newman can ask fans to keep it down for a sec so he can try to hear like-minded indie-popsters Peter Bjorn John performing upwind, and very nearly make out the Swedes' music.
It's a place where ex-Black Flag bassist Chuck Dukowski, Texas garage-rock legend Roky Erickson and Rage Against the Machine guitarist Tom Morello (as The Nightwatchman) can play in succession on the same stage.
It's a place where packs of friends huddle for naps on plush lawns and strangers exchange cell numbers while grinding one another in sticky tents.
It's a place where a late-arriving French electronic duo (Air) can lose half its crowd to an early-beginning Latin rock group (Manu Chao and Radio Bemba Sound System), whose anti-White House, anti-war rhetoric sounds powerful in any language.
It's a place where country music can make inroads with rock and dance listeners, with Willie Nelson, Nickel Creek and Gillian Welch previewing the same promoters' inaugural Stagecoach festival (this weekend at the same Empire Polo Fields).
It's a place where bands that consistently impress in intimate clubs can come up small on big stages (Tapes 'n Tapes) or sound like they were made for wide-open spaces (Interpol).
It's a place where hordes of "The Battle of Coachella"-logo-wearing Rage Against the Machine fans can find the subtle psychedelia of Grizzly Bear a bit too opaque, but shake glowsticks enthusiastically to the dizzying rave-rock of Britain's Klaxons.
It's a place where The Decemberists' Colin Meloy and Chris Funk can goof through their version of the Russian Kazachok dance, with more than a few audience members trying to follow suit.
It's a place where you can spend more time looking for your car at night's end than watching any single act perform.
It's a place where rap-rockers Rage Against the Machine can play for the first time in seven years, opening with "Testify" before really turning it loose with second number "Bulls on Parade," inspiring vicious mosh pits but few reported injuries.
So in the end, just what is Coachella?
Simply put, it's utopia. For music fans ... and conchilla collectors everywhere.