Two Days in Palm Beach

A pesky and recently enacted section of the Internal Revenue Code (457A, requiring repatriation of earnings in offshore tax havens) has proven to be a real headache for the poor New York City hedge funders who must now pay those New York taxes! Luckily, Palm Beach has come to the rescue, luring HNWIs with its enticing tax benefits. While the island has long held court as America's wealthiest playground, the influx of new money has diversified the place, and bored octogenarians can now be seen mingling with scantily clad millennials at HMF, the Vegas-style mega-lounge at The Breakers.

As the high season came to a close, I paid a visit to Palm Beach for a whirlwind weekend of spa jaunts, yacht parties, and a polo lesson with a T&C-certified bachelor. Herewith, some highlights. Feel free to let them serve as your guide or fair warning.

Fresh off the plane from frigid New York, I was greeted at the Eau Palm Beach Resort & Spa with the sun's blinding rays and the sound of breaking waves. After a poolside lunch, it was off to the award-winning Eau Spa, a sprawling 42,000 square feet of waterfalls, raining jacuzzis, and private villas, that might as well be a resort of its own. It's adults only, but the rubber ducks in the wishing well (you light a candle, make a wish, and let the bird float away before your treatment) were more reminiscent of Neverland.

Left: Instagram snaps of the expansive Eau Spa, a lucky rubber duck, and the sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean.

Once a year, Palm Beach plays host to the International Boat Show, where hundreds of boats—from inflatables to superyachts—cruise in to boast their shiny woodwork and funny names. Burgess, one of the premier purveyors of the superyacht, had brought Inevitable, a 163-ft gentleman's yacht (read: high seas bachelor pad) and was offering it for a bargain at $12 million. Their sales strategy that weekend included playing host to a cocktail party for Escada, where society ladies kept busy perusing the turquoise caftans and Hawaiian print tunics from the house's spring collection. I kept busy with my glass of rosé on the upper deck, taking in the salty Floridian breeze.

Left: Todd & Brandie Herbst
Inset: Burgess' Inevitable superyacht

"1 in 3 people I teach either fall off or get run over," my polo teacher, Nic Roldan, said. Roldan is one of the highest ranked polo players in America, so I had to assume he was just kidding. In fact, he assured me he was. Still, as I very ungracefully climbed onto an American Thoroughbred named Delilah, I had to ask: Or was he?

I had left Palm Beach that morning for Wellington, the equestrian capital of the world, dressed in a white oxford, matching jeans, and my New Yorker version of riding boots (thank you, Stuart Weitzman). It was meant to be an appropriate outfit for Polo 101 with Nic Roldan, the polo player who seems just as comfortable at the top of world rankings as he appears in person and in magazines heralding his handsome looks. But polo is, after all, the second most dangerous sport in the world after auto racing, so I had bigger worries than making a fool of myself in front of a T&C bachelor. From where I now sat, surviving the experience didn't look like a sure thing.

Soon after securing my death grip around the reins with my left hand, I took the mallet in my right. "Have you ever held a gun before?" asked Nic. No, I'm a Democrat. We tried to translate into anti-gun parlance, and came up with this: it's like the right-hand grip of a golf club. As I kept my eye on the ball, I leaned over using all lower body strength to keep from plummeting to the ground, and took a swing. Missed. Took another and it rolled a few inches. This was high school gym class all over again.

As Nic led Delilah around—I had begged him not to let go—I made repeated attempts, some with success, some not. While I struggled and shrieked, and maybe even let out a profanity or two, a boy named River flashed by on his steed, making quite clear who the real, budding polo superstar was. Then came the real challenge—steering the gentle beast on my own while taking swings. I'm told I reached top speeds of 6 mph. As soon as my ever-patient coach suggested we try to mimic River's speed and agility, I quickly peeled myself off the horse and made a beeline for the exit.

Surviving polo merited a little retail reward. A trip down Worth Avenue—currently celebrating its 100^th year—and its charming courtyards (like Via Mizner, bottom right) was a testament to the ever-evolving tastes of the 1%. While the old school champs remain, the crop of dizzyingly-stocked boutiques and the cheeky neo-Pop art (examples from Jonathan Stein at Gallery Biba, left) also on offer would be sure to make Henry Flagler turn in his grave.



Below, a condensed guide to the island's better offerings:







Where to stay

Eau Palm Beach Resort & Spa

The Omphoy Ocean Resort

Where to drink

HMF at The Breakers (even if the clubby music and Louboutin heels don't appeal to you, the fantastic people-watching will.)

Where to play polo

International Polo Club (Sorry, T&C bachelor not included)

Where to shop

Tomas Maier (for Aurelie Bidermann bracelets, elegant one-piece swimsuits, & luxurious cashmere separates)

Babalu (for Missoni towels, imported Italian candies, & coffee table books)

DTR Modern Galleries (for Damien Hirst dot paintings)

Kassatly's (Worth Avenue's oldest shop warrants a visit for its custom linens and hand-embroidered handkerchiefs, guaranteed to be a hit with your grandmother)

CJ Laing (though it shares its name with a 1970s porn star Hall of Famer, this version is more inclined towards $900 ikat coats)