by Edward Wilkinson-Latham

The first thing I notice after disembarking the plane in West Palm is the herd of wheelchairs and electric buggies gathered like an assembled posse. Polyester-clad blue rinses and vintage toupées battle in slow motion to be the first to climb slowly upon these complimentary electric chariots, as the nonchalant airport employees dressed in light green blazers and peach pink trousers watch with blank expression, their eyes dulled with tedium of seeing another plane load of aged lizards searching for warmth. What they crave is some drama, like someone who needs carting off the aircraft, bound and gagged after expressing a nasty dose of air rage. Hell they look so bored they’d probably be happy with a school party of ADD kids with hyperactive disorder.

The Intracoastal Waterway separates the city of West Palm from the more affluent Palm Beach; a 26km long spit of some of the most expensive sand in the world jutting out from the mainland like a dangling penis with erectile dysfunction. Once over the bridge, convertible Bentleys, Porches and Mercedes patrol the green palm fringed boulevards. As well as these prestige vehicles there are the well kept “Jew Canoes”—near mint ’80s luxury automobiles driven by the undead, their tufts of silver hair barely visible over the steering wheel. They veer across the central yellow line with addled nervous aggression in their eyes as they nearly career into another oncoming vehicle. Car parks at sunset can seem like dodgems at a fun fair.

These days around Palm Beach you occasionally make out small white signs no bigger than a bill envelope, stuck in the turf outside the odd picture perfect mansion. These are the barely visible and tasteful ‘for sale’ signs which over the past few months have become more numerous, proof of the recent economic downturn and the familiarity of locals with the conman of the century—Bernie Madoff. Bernie used to have a lot of friends down here. [more]