In the summer of 2009 I was house-sitting the old stable of the Woolworth estate in Palm Beach. The main house has been divided in two. The remaining property apportioned to smaller luxurious houses providing safe haven for the mega-rich.

A few blocks away was Donald Trump’s estate, Mar-De-Lago. The baroque vision of opulence overlooked the roundabout spinning traffic north, south or west along the barrier island. His mansion was undergoing renovation for the 2009 High Season. A rightwing radio commentator lived to the north, but Russ Limbaugh never left his tin-foiled basement. No one who was anyone was here this time of year, but the man next door to my squat had been living in Palm Beach all his life and said, as we drank gin-tonics by his pool, “I wouldn’t live anywhere else.”

“What about low season?” I asked, since most of the residents had fled to homes according to their inheritances; Newport, Maine, the South of France, Switzerland at al.

“Low season is the best time of year. I wish it lasted all year long.”
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He had a point. Ocean Boulevard was unsullied by frantic billionaires in their Bentleys. The parking spots on Worth Avenue were open all day long and you could enter Amice without a reservation.

I’ve seen none of the other neighbors on the street. The houses are battened down until after the hurricane season. No storms were stirring in the Atlantic and there was no sign of Donald Trump at his tennis courts, then again the billionaire was a golfer and I walked through the bushes to the beach. Donald will never know I was there. Neither will the police.