Life

The old saying, “It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good,” has received strong reinforcement during the recent unprecedented cold spell in the Palm Beaches. The rest of the world almost certainly thinks we lead a sybaritic life down here with the perennial sunshine taking the edge off the normal hardships that everyone else has to contend with. But one unusual side effect of the recent cold spell (and though it wasn’t cold by, say, Canadian standards, it was the coldest spell we’ve had here in 27 years) was the carnage it wrought on the iguana population. We have a love/hate relationship with iguanas here. When they first arrived in the early 1980s they were regarded as cute, but a decade later the mood changed.

A frisson of fear tends to run through non-Americans when they face immigration in the United States. For years, young Brits have been warned prior to their first trip: “When you meet the immigration officer, don’t make jokes!” To boys cultivated to be insouciant in Britain’s posher schools, this usually means approaching the booth nervously repeating, “Don’t say bomb, don’t say bomb” – hopefully under their breath. However, I’d say the officers guarding America’s borders are among the most welcoming, and sometimes even funny, I’ve met – I’m excluding ICE, who sound awful. It’s often a surprise given I’m usually arriving from a country firmly on America’s State Sponsors of Terrorism list: Cuba.

Does every billionaire have a private jet? Are they standard toys for these very special people? Intrigued by this uniquely modern possibility, I inquired of Palm Beach International Airport (PBIA) how many private jets are registered here. The answer: 172. Some of them are no doubt owned by corporations, but that number compares well with the 67 billionaires thought to have homes in the area – perhaps some have two; that wouldn’t be unthinkable. But, of course, owning your own Gulfstream involves more than just turning up at a private airfield with no worries as to how much your bags weigh. Maybe some very rich folk don’t want the hassle of employing year-round pilots (at least two) or the bother of constant maintenance needed to keep these toys in the air.

The story of Harry deLeyer and his horse Snowman reads like a Disney classic. DeLeyer was a Dutch immigrant farmer who bought Snowman at auction with his last $80 in the 1950s . Snowman was an unpedigreed plowhorse, already old by competitive riding standards, and likely headed for the glue factory when deLeyer saw promise in his strength and spirit. They went on to become one of the most successful pairings in the history of showriding, taking home the Triple Crown of national titles in 1958. The horse world has changed a lot since then. Both training and breeding are highly scientific across all pursuits, from showriding to racing.

A few weeks before the end of the year, I was invited to a house party at which I had the misfortune of becoming embroiled in a conversation with a man I’ll call Joe, because his name was Joe and I don’t feel inclined to offer him the dignity of a pseudonym. There’s a theory I’ve corroborated since moving to New York in 2020. Every conversation at a party in this city eventually gravitates toward one of five subjects: traffic, the weather, real estate, sex or the mayor. The ultra-rich are among the subway’s most devoted riders Joe told me he works in finance (which he pronounced “fin-ants”) and it seemed he wasn’t bothered about the weather. He wasn’t a tax-optimizing Connecticut commuter, so had no unsolicited opinions to share about traffic.

My apartment in Havana is on a rooftop overlooking the sea, which sounds grand and penthousey, but it’s not – it’s the former caretaker’s hut. It also sits above my parents-in-law’s place, which offers challenges, but does mean that most days I wander down for lunch. When I first moved in, I didn’t speak Spanish and so would enjoy these meals in ignorant bliss, smiling winningly as I guzzled down pork, rice and beans. I tried not to ask my now-wife to translate because I didn’t want to interrupt what I imagined were hugely erudite discussions; she’s a literary professor and her parents are both philosophers. Slowly, though, I began to understand, Spanish revealing itself like a song on the wind.

It is likely that the ordinary man, not being an ideologue, would agree as he grows older with Arthur Balfour’s famous epigram: “In politics nothing matters very much, and few things matter at all.” This is only partly to do with sub specie aeterni, etc. For the rest, there is the simple recognition that politicians always make politics (and the questions and policies with which they concern themselves) out to be much more substantial and consequential than they actually are.

When you own a horse farm, the same question canters repeatedly through your mind: should I buy another horse? Rationally, you know the answer is no, but you inevitably wind up doing it anyway. Because in the grand scheme of things, it’s just one more head in the herd. The day-to-day of farm management doesn’t change much between 15 horses and 16. It takes some time to acclimate a new arrival, of course. A herd is like a high school: popular kids run the show, and the new blood always faces some bullying. But once he finds his place in the hierarchy, the routine proceeds as usual. And consistency is key with horses. The herd mostly gets to roam freely through about 40 acres of pasture.