Palm beach

Saturday

Cockburn

Propping up the bar at Andrew Giuliani’s Palm Beach fundraiser

Cockburn has the good fortune to be invited to all the right places. And one of the rightest of places on Palm Beach Island is the home of Beth Ailes, widow of the man that was the “I” in the masterclass book of persuasion, You Are the Message. On occasion, an invitation to a good liberal party comes Cockburn’s way. But they are getting few and further apart. He'll be going to the Coachella of mainstream moralism, the White House Correspondents' Dinner this weekend. (A subject for another missive). But for now let’s get back to Palm Beach, Florida, where the girls are pretty and the streets not gritty. The occasion for the party was Andrew Giuliani — son of America’s Mayor, Rudy — who was in town doing the political rounds.

andrew giuliani

Thursday

Roger Kimball

Tastes of paradise

What’s in a name? Sometimes, quite a lot, especially when seen through the benign lens of sentiment. By the time you read this, April, which is not the “cruellest month,” will be upon us and the morning mercury will be edging upward, coaxing forth the crocuses and daffodils. But in the last several days, dawn has come to where I live in Connecticut accompanied by temperatures in the teens and twenties. March has entered clad in its traditional lion’s mane. I feel especially grateful, therefore, that duty called me and a handful of colleagues to Palm Beach, just as February gave way to March, on behalf of the New Criterion, the magazine I edit, and Encounter Books, the other phalanx in my campaign for world conquest.

palm beach wine champagne

Thursday

Taki

The lost magic of Palm Beach

From our UK edition

Gstaad Good old Helvetia. I’m quitting her for the rainy but pleasant land of England. The cows are beginning to resemble chorus girls and the village an Alpine Colditz. Too much of a good thing said a wise man to a friend of mine who wanted to live on the French Riviera all year round. That was long ago. The South of France is a shithole these days — and a very expensive one at that. The real Riviera now lies far away from the coast, up in the hills: Saint-Paul-de-Vence and its environs.