I staying two streets from Donald Trump's estate, a baroque vision of opulence overlooking the roundabout spinning traffic north, south or west along the barrier island. I'm house-sitting the old stable of the Woolworth estate. The main house has been divided in two. The remaining property apportioned to smaller luxurious houses providing safe haven for the mega-rich. The man next door has been living in Palm Beach all his life.
"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."
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 can walk into Amice without a reservation.
I've seen none of the other neighbors on the street. The houses are battened down until after the hurricanes and there's no sign of Donald Trump. His mansion is undergoing renovation for the 2009 season. I'll be long gone by then, but for today it's off to the beach. Donald will never know I was there. Neither will the police.
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