FURTHERMORE

Heaven is being rich, white, Protestant and over 71

PETRONELLA WYATT

Tom was the youngest person I had seen all week. He was 63. But in Naples, West Florida, to be 63 qualifies a man to be a juvenile lead. Tom, along with his friends Joe and Gene, was boarding a boat called the Lady Brett for some deep-sea fishing on the Gulf of Mexico. Joe was 72. Gene looked good for a man of over 80. I told him so. He was indignant. 'I'm only 75.'

I had gone to Naples to fish. But I ended up as more of a fisher of men — old men, that is. West Florida is the only place out- side China where to be old is very heaven. Tom and Joe had migrated from Lake Michigan, Gene from New York. No one is born here, they just come here to die. Naples, the capital of Collier County, is America's largest and wealthiest retirement home. It has a population of 9,000 — with an average age of 71.

In some ways, Naples might be called the model west coast town, a place of which the Founding Fathers would be proud — they would have retired here as the founding grandfathers.There is no income tax. The crime rate is neglible. Last year there was one murder, a domestic killing. Joe told me that there are no poor in Naples. One rea- son may be that they can't afford to live here. Real estate costs up to $30,000 per square foot.

In a country where the old white popula- tion feels threatened by waves of Hispanic immigrants, west Florida is one of the last strongholds of the Anglo-Saxon Protestant. Anyone who believes that America is free of snobbery should come here. The preju- dices of the old country, as England is known, have burgeoned more strongly in the warm climate. The Florida Neapolitan is a hedgehog (in Isaiah Berlin's vivid metaphor), who relates everything he sees and feels to a central vision of what he thinks life ought to be. He has no belief in the superior virtue of the oppressed. The town is without a public transport system because it is associated with a lower class. There was a railway station once, but it was closed down in case some undesirable peo- ple got off the train.

More perturbingly, west Florida is the respectable voice of American anti- Semitism. It is a silent voice, but its silence is ringing nonetheless. Looking down the list of names beside front-door bells, one is unlikely to find a Goldsmith or a Rosen- blum. Many of the area's expensive seaside apartment buildings are known as 'clubs'. They are run by vigorous committees of men and women referred to colloquially as the 'sifters'. They sift the unwanted with a discretion that allows the process to contin- ue with apparent impunity. 'No Jew would really try and live here. They wouldn't feel comfortable,' said one resident. 'I can't say there are many of them around.'

At parties, locals drop derogatory refer- ences to Jews almost unconsciously. Many of the county's golf clubs have the same unofficial policy of discrimination against non-Gentiles as the apartment committees: `We're so sorry ... there's no room ... such a long waiting list ... please try again in a few years.' There is a joke about the wealthy Jew who tries to book into a luxury Florida hotel. 'My name's Cohen,' he tells the receptionist. 'I'd like a room for the night.'

`I'm sorry, sir. We're full.'

`What about the stables? Can I sleep there?'

`Yes, sir. That'll be $1,000,000, sir.'

`What about my horse? Can he sleep there too?'

`Yes, sir. That'll be an extra $10, sir.'

`Why the difference in price?'

`Your horse isn't Jewish, sir.'

Florida is a state of contrasts. Down south by the Keys, a horseshoe of islands in the Gulf of Mexico, where Hemingway wrote To Have and Have Not, much of the population is young — or youngish. Miami, on the east coast, pulsates with Hispanics, blacks and bucket-shop tourists. The British lie on Miami Beach like white slugs. In the evening they head downtown to the art deco bars to drink pina coladas with pink umbrellas on top. Fourteen- and 15- year-olds peddle dope and worse on Biscay Boulevard, where last year there were near- ly a thousand violent crimes.

The first thing that strikes one about the west coast is its surburban nature. Naples pretends gentility as fiercely as a Victorian matriarch (a deaf employer, who could read lips, recently fired a worker who used pro- fanity at a distance).The houses all have gar- dens. Most of the larger homes were built in the 1930s. Perhaps reflecting the age of their occupants, they resemble mausoleums. Flat lawns start at the beach and run towards the porch for a quarter of a mile, jumping over statues and rose gardens.

One retired businessman bought a house for $5 million, knocked it down and built an almost identical one seven yards to the left in order to have a better view of the sunset.

If you are not rich, white and Gentile, you belong to the jetsam of faceless doc- tors, lawyers and domestic servants. On the outskirts of Naples is a token 'slum', which has little pink houses like Cornish holiday homes. The existence of the genuinely poor is denied. Hispanics, blacks and Indians make up 22 per cent of Collier County's population. They live ten or so miles out- side Naples in shacks and trailers, working as waiters and agricultural labourers. Flori- da is the largest citrus-producing state. Half an hour's drive from Naples is a settlement called Imakolee. Hispanic fruit- pickers live there in ugly tin huts. Whites never go near it. The proletariat of west Florida has yet to find its Marx.

Few things are what they seem in this looking-glass land There cannot be many places with a greater devotion to Mammon. But it would be hard to find a town with more earthly piety. Leftish Anglican clergy should come here and learn. The age and wealth of the population would appear to have produced a heightened consciousness of sin. There are over ten churches in Naples, for every Protestant denomination — Baptist, Episcopalian (Anglican), Methodist, Presbyterian. The clergy oper- ate with the enthusiasm with which the British navy impressed sailors in the 18th century. As I walked past an Episcopalian chapel a man appeared from the vestry and clutched at my arm. 'Are you a future bride?' he asked. 'No,' I replied. 'Shame. I was going to offer you my services.'

The west coast rich even have their own preacher, a Dr Keith Millar. Dr Millar was a former millionaire lawyer who appeared to be the Episcopalians' Lord Archer, hav- ing published a series of best-selling books, the last of which was entitled Faith in the Fast Lane: A High Achiever's Guide to Christianity. Dr Millar had been asked to address the members of Naples's Episco- palian chapel. The minister had sold over 300 tickets for his lecture and was worried about not having enough space. His worries were well-founded.The church hall was groaning with octogenarians. When Dr Millar was announced they rattled their sticks. 'You are in the top half a per cent income bracket of America,' Dr Millar told us. 'God loves you.' My neighbour's cane fell over with a clatter. 'Hallelujah!' he shouted. In Naples to be old and rich and Protestant is indeed very heaven.