Manicured mansions
Taki
APalm Beach S everyone knows, Palm Beach is a pristine, immaculate resort north of Miami, a manicured place full of palm trees, great mansions by the sea and some awfully rich people, and a town where law and order reign supreme. There are as many socialists in Palm Beach as there are socialites in Kandahar. It is the most famous resort in America, and deservedly so. It reeks of money and comfort — a toy town for the well-off, a village where one can buy a Rolls or Mercedes or a very large diamond in a jiffy but cannot have one's shirt laundered.
Mind you, the place is not what it used to be, not by a long shot, but then what is? Palm Beach was smaller and friendlier during the Fifties and Sixties. Then came the developers, and high rises replaced the shanty towns and black neighbourhoods of West Palm Beach, across the inland waterway. Now high rises stand out like undulating fingers, reminding those over in Palm Beach that 'progress' stops at nothing. Where once upon a time there were family outings on the beach (by the relatively poor), with volley ball games and children making human chains in the waves, now there are 100mph speedboats racing the sun, SUV baseball-cap-wearing drivers blasting rock music, and city slicker types looking for expensive trinkets on Worth Avenue. Still, it's a hell of a nice place to live in when one considers Brighton, Blackpool or Bournemouth. Or Monte Carlo. Or Marbella, not to mention Vouliagmeni and Glyfada. (The last two are Athenian beach resorts which closely resemble downtown Manila.) My hostess was Terry Kramer, daughter of legendary Wall Street investor Charlie Allen, as generous and nice a lady as there is, at present involved in a torrid affair with an Englishman. Nick Simunek, an ex-Coldstream guardsman and the only man I know to have wrestled an alligator in a swamp for money. (The alligator quit.) Terry's house is on the ocean and is a marvel. There are great lawns and vistas, 50ft ceilings, all in ochre colours and done in very good taste. That did not stop my friend Steven Morris from walking into a glass door and knocking himself out in front of an amused crowd. Oh well, you know what they say about Englishmen abroad.
One of the highlights of my visit was to run into my old (we've been friends for 40 years) buddy Frank Shields, son of the great tennis player of the Thirties. Frank Shields senior was a finalist in the Wimbledon singles in 1932, but was forced by the captain of the US team to default in the final — he was badly injured but wanted to go on — as the Davis Cup against England was to be played two weeks later. Back then patriotism came first.
Shields was a legendary drinker and womaniser, and known as the best-looking man of his or any generation. He once followed a woman to Le Havre, where she boarded a transatlantic liner, and spent the night with her. In the morning he realised he was 200 miles out and that there was no way for him to return to Paris in time to play the Davis Cup doubles against Borotra and Brugnon. (The Yankees had to forfeit the rubber.) He married Princess Marina TorIonia, a great and noble beauty, and had a son — my friend Frank — and a daughter.
Young Frank, as he was known, was as handsome as his dad, and even taller, 6ft 7in. He married and had five girls, the youngest of whom, the delightful Olympia, my son JT tried to put the moves on when they were 14 years of age. I saw Olympia at the party and the first thing she asked me about was JT. Frank has not been well lately, having had to endure chemotherapy, but the only thing the awful chemo managed to do to him was to make his hair curly, 'Finally you got some wop hair,' [told him, He looked as handsome as ever, cracking jokes non-stop, a modern Gary Cooper, more loquacious and three inches taller.
Looking at Frank and Dee-Dee Shields and five of their daughters, I couldn't help thinking what a marvellous American family they are. If I take over the glossy monthly I am negotiating for in the Big Bagel, the first thing I will do is put that family on the cover. Oh, yes, I almost forgot. If anyone has any spare change, don't forget to mail it to the now truly poor little Greek boy, I have bought part of a weekly newspaper in the Bagel — I will soon announce which one — with options to buy a majority share. Please, pretty please, send funds. My children are hungry, my sailors are thirsty, my wife is walking around in rags, and my drug dealer is threatening to take me to court.
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