A Look into the Gilded Cage

I have lived in West Palm Beach, FL for most of my life. My parents (well, at least one of them) were weary of New York City and its ugliness in the early 1970s and decided to follow my grandparents down to warmer latitudes and cleaner streets. However, anyone who has spent time in WPB has observed a strange paradox-affluence and squalor seem to exist mere blocks (sometimes feet) apart. Railroad tracks don't necessarily neatly and orderly divide the haves and have-nots. Some of the working class areas are bespotted with the occasional handyman's special that's been spruced up, restored and improved with perhaps a more affluent inhabitant who appreciates the lower property taxes. Someone who is on the shiny side of those interesting cycles areas around town seem to experience: downmarket to chic and perhaps back again.

WPB, primarily the Eastern part, has become my home. After years of cursing the hot Christmases, the sterile vibe, the lack of excitement, I slowly acclimated. I think it happened sometime in my 20s. I have much to say about this curious town. For today, I must briefly address that even more curious town over the bridge, east of West Palm. You've probably heard of it, certainly its most famous road, Worth Avenue, the Rodeo Drive of the East coast. Of course I'm speaking of that charmed peninsula (but everyone refers to it as "the island") Palm Beach. That geographically small but utterly concentrated area of extreme wealth.

Architecturally, it's a marvel. Choice art deco and Spanish style buildings are never more than a block away. Clarke Beach is nice, and usually crowded. Surfers prefer an area a bit to the north, Reef Road. The Breakers speaks for itself. Wander through and you may see a notable if you're fortuneate. Other hotels like the Chesterfield are also old school charming. My father-in-law owned the dearly departed Plaza Inn on Brazilian Court, just a block from the Chesterfield. The Plaza Inn was a 50 room Eurpoean boutique style B & B, more or less. It was quite wonderful, but hurricane damage and a dwindling occupancy did it in. It was razed in 2007.

The citizens of Palm Beach are another matter. Now, I'm not here to bash, but....I've encountered a few, er, eccentric personalities in and from Palm Beach. Extreme and even moderate wealth (to the manor born or nouveau) tends to create a special personality that may best be described as cerrated. Entitled. I'll stop there. Many lovely people come from the Island, but the rotten ones seem to get all the press.

The prompting for this piece? Laurence Leamer's compulsively readable Madness Under the Royal Palms: Love and Death Behind the Gates of Palm Beach. I've been devouring it over the past week. The rush of the familiar keeps me glued. I've been around this playground, even though I've never even been close to being a member of that society. The closest I've come was when my gf (now wife's) and mine's photo was snapped by Island photographer Mort Kaye at a 100th birtday celebration at the Plaza Inn in 2001. The pic appeared in a glossy periodical (which one is eluding me now). There we were, amongst other images of socialites. Like I was somebody! Oh dear, who the hell is that, some must've asked.

Anyhow, Leamer's book is a strident, never sensational or over-the-top, look at the high society. Key players and wannabes alike are examined very closely. Most of their stories do not end happily. As much as I'm fascinated with this book, I'm also quite depressed after a read. The poor have no dibs on the worst aspects of human behavior. We're all capable of unchecked innapropriateness. Just because one knows which bit of wildly overpriced flatware to use at a given time does not preclude them from debauchery or misery. On the contrary, just examine the sometimes lurid details of various island scandals over the years. During the Pulitzer trials in the early 1980s, the Palm Beach Post ran a series of articles that really pushed the boundaries of what was acceptable for a family newspaper. I remember a youth pastor I had telling us how he cancelled his subscription. He probably didn't appreciate reading about the finer points of intercourse with brass musical instruments.

As I read of familiar locales, residents, scandals, I am reminded of my own interesting history with the place. While never even close to being privleged enough to have residence in one of those mansions hidden behind a mile of driveway, as I said, I have been around them, their owners. Let me see....

1. Proposing to a college sweetheart on Worth Avenue on a Sunday morning. I was dressed up as the Phantom from The Phantom of the Opera. The few who were out barely gave me a second glance. Like I was in New York or something.

2. Almost getting arrested for trespassing on the beach one night.

3. Walking, blantantly loitering through a house being built with a friend on the north end. Good thing no one caught us.

4. Meeting Curt Gowdy at Cafe L'Europe. The former sportscaster was not coherent that night. It was shortly before he passed away.

5. Visiting the infamous Au Bar one year to the night after William Kennedy Smith met Patricia Bowman. Accidental anniversary, there. The club was an odd place. It looked like a living room, with very old men clutching the thighs of twenty-something gold diggers.

6. Numerous ice cream cones over the years at Sprinkle's. Despite there being multiple celebrity sightings there, I never saw a one.

7. Attending a Young Republican's bash circa 1994. My political leanings were transforming in those days, so it made for an interesting evening. I recall having a somewhat civilized conversation about both Newt Gingrich and Rush Limbaugh.

Much more, but those are some highlights. Palm Beach is a strange and beautiful place. You should visit at least once. Leamer has come to similiar conclusions.