Rich And Poor In Paradise

I used to dismiss Florida as a vast retirement commune for terminally exhausted New Yorkers. A land as flat as wall-to-wall carpeting, as overly manicured and artificial as a miniature golf course, the Sunshine State surely could hold no interest for lusty young travelers of discerning taste and intellect. 

I hate to disappoint you, but I was mistaken. Perhaps because I’m no longer a lusty young traveler, or because my taste and intellect no longer discern the way they used to, I thoroughly enjoyed my recent excursion to America’s peninsular paradise. 

My wife Anne and I reveled in the subtropical vegetation -- not only the predictable palms, but the royal poincianas with their flaming blossoms, the profusion of philodendrons and other hot-house plants growing wild in every yard and alley, and the wonder of a single banyan tree that could shade half a city block under its broad green umbrella. We reveled in the architecture -- the terra cotta tile roofs, the touches of Moorish whimsy, the eye-popping Art Deco district of South Beach that resembled a low-rise Emerald City. We reveled in the food and drink -- the native conch and key limes, the Cuban and Caribbean influences, the icy mojitos with their subtly intoxicating mix of rum, lime, and mint leaves. 

To stroll in the formal gardens of Villa Vizcaya on a misty evening, to watch miniature lizards scramble over walls of fossilized coral, to glimpse a bald eagle in the Everglades and the world’s most staggering sunset from an outdoor tiki bar in the Keys, with Anne at my side -- well, I can no longer grumble with any authority about sensory deprivation. I could spend the rest of my life in a cubicle and not grow bitter.

But let me tell you about one day in particular, a day I ventured forth on my own while Anne was attending a conference in Miami. I had long been curious about Palm Beach, the posh resort that sparked the South Florida real estate boom at the turn of the last century. When the vastness of Florida below St. Augustine was still a mosquito-infested alligator swamp, oil tycoon Henry Flagler saw the possibilities: he’d run his railroad down the coast and create a string of glittering winter resorts for glittering rich people. Palm Beach was the first and most famous of them, a relic of the Gilded Age, when ambitious men made outrageous fortunes, made them quickly and paid no tax -- much like today’s corporate CEOs. 

I drove up from Miami on I-95, cut over to the coastal route north of Pompano Beach, and enjoyed passing through affluent adult playgrounds like Boca Raton and Delray Beach. When I saw the sign that announced my entry into Palm Beach, I looked around. I was driving on a narrow barrier island, amply vegetated at the southern end, but not particularly astonishing in terms of visible wealth. The astonishment came a few miles farther up the island, as I passed carved-stone and stucco palazzos, one after another -- golden-hued mansions that fronted the crystal-green sea. 

To make sure I wasn’t looking at a mere facade of wealth along the main road into town, like prop-houses on a Hollywood backlot, I explored the side streets and came away equally impressed. More carved-stone and stucco palazzos, with courtyards and privacy walls and wrought-iron gates. No flimsy McMansions here, no twiggy trees or manmade retention ponds: this was the kind of neighborhood where Zeus would settle down when he retired from Mt. Olympus. I caught occasional glimpses of the occupants behind the walls and gates. They moved with ease, they conversed softly, they appeared to be cognizant of their good fortune and took it in stride.

A brief shower, then dazzling sunlight: I now stood before The Breakers, the centerpiece and crown jewel of Palm Beach. One of the world’s most opulent hotels, it soared above magnificent gardens, flags waving triumphantly from its twin towers. I strolled inside among the prosperous preppie guests, trying to time-travel back to the ‘twenties; it was the kind of hotel where Gatsby would have absconded with Daisy if he had been spared the bullets. An elderly gentleman with a cane rested alone on a bench and scowled, lost in thought; he was probably dreaming of those days, too.

Onward to the Flagler mansion, an appropriately monumental monument to the potentate who built Florida as we know it. In his portraits Flagler appeared to be a fine specimen, even in his old age: thick thatch of straight white hair, alert eyes, sweeping mustache, bold chin. I marveled that so much wealth and splendor should have accumulated in the hands of a mere primate. How mindboggling had been the progress of our species since it descended from the trees of East Africa! Flagler’s apelike ancestors would have been proud of their progeny, if somewhat baffled by his lifestyle.

I wanted to reach Lake Okeechobee, that mysterious donut-hole in the middle of South Florida, before the sunlight faded. The road from Palm Beach took me across the northern fringe of the Everglades, now given over to sod and sugar cane farms. I crossed a landscape flatter than Kansas and just as desolate, except for the flocks of red-winged blackbirds that chattered by the roadside. White egrets, like prehistoric planes, would take off and land periodically in the distance. 

Finally I saw signs of the approaching lake: I was entering Canal Point, a nearly nonexistent hamlet on the shores of Okeechobee. More desolation, and the lake appeared to be rimmed by an earthen dike that blocked any view of its contents. I drove to the next town along the lake. Here I passed humble whitewashed cottages and miniature churches of obscure denominations; I imagined feverish hymns, sweating preachers, overweight women speaking in tongues with their arms raised to heaven. For a town so small, the population -- what I saw of it -- appeared to be surprisingly diverse: whites, blacks, Hispanics and probably a handful of Seminole Indians. 

I found a road that ran up the side of the dike to a parking lot at the top. On one side Lake Okeechobee stretched all the way to the horizon, a blue-brown inland sea with low waves lapping the shore. On the other side, down the slope of the dike, stood the town, its name emblazoned on a soaring water tower: PAHOKEE. I beheld the ramshackle shopping street, probably little changed since World War II. I saw oil tanks and trailer homes surrounded by palms and those flaming poinciana trees. Poverty appears to be more tolerable in the midst of natural beauty, and I guessed that one could grow up in Pahokee without feeling deprived -- at least until the alarm-clock of adolescence went off and agitated the soul with its reckless urgencies.

Pahokee. A perfect name for such a town. Here was the honest, unvarnished heart of South Florida, untrodden by the Versace crowd. This was still Palm Beach County, but it might as well have been another planet. At the opposite end of the county, beyond forty miles of desolation, Palm Beach beckoned with its carved-stone and stucco mansions, The Breakers, the posh shops and richer-than-God populace. 

Two towns inhabited by the same species; two ways of life so divergent as to make an observer’s head spin. You wonder how it ever came to this, after a few hundred thousand years of human evolution: that nearly everyone works for a living, but only a minority of us are rewarded for our labors with wealth and mansions. Who decided that some forms of labor (like making executive decisions) are worth so much more than others (like working in a sugar cane field)? How did it happen that, being born equal -- at least in theory -- some of us end up in Palm Beach and others land in Pahokee? I wish I knew, good reader. I wish I knew.

Cynic's Pick of the Week

First Enron, then Arthur Andersen, Global Crossing, WorldCom, and now... could the once-mighty Xerox be next? Corporate America seems to be tumbling like bowling pins due to the chicanery of the folks at the top. Meanwhile, workers and small investors will be counting their losses and struggling to come up with mortgage payments. I’m no socialist, but it doesn't take Fidel Castro to see that the government should start regulating the internal affairs of these mini-empires we call corporations. They can start with pay caps for CEOs.