Palm Beach for July 4th

We took the Brightline from Miami to West Palm Beach for the long weekend. G and I, no agenda except the holiday and the beach. About an hour and a half on the train, which is even easier than the Orlando run. You barely have time to finish a coffee before you're there.

We stayed at the Palm House Hotel in Palm Beach, which is a smaller boutique hotel a few blocks from the water. It doesn't have the resort scale of the Eau (where we'd stayed in 2022) but it has charm. The rooms are bright and tropical without being kitschy, the pool area is compact but well-maintained, and the staff operates with that Palm Beach attentiveness where things appear before you ask for them. Towels at the pool. Water at the restaurant. A recommendation for dinner that's better than whatever you would have found on your own. We checked in around 2 PM and the woman at the front desk asked if we were there for the holiday. We said yes. She said the rooftop was the best spot for the fireworks and to get up there by 8:30 if we wanted good seats. She was right on both counts.

July 4th in Palm Beach is quieter than you'd expect. The big fireworks are in West Palm Beach, across the Intracoastal, and you can see them from the Palm Beach side without the crowd. We watched from the hotel rooftop with drinks, the fireworks reflecting off the water, the sound arriving a half-second after the light. G had a glass of champagne. I had a bourbon. A couple next to us had brought their dog, who was wearing a bandana with American flags on it and was not impressed by the fireworks. G was charmed by the dog. I reminded her she doesn't like dogs. She said "I don't like dogs in general. I like specific dogs." This is a distinction she's made before and which I do not fully understand. The sky did its thing for about 20 minutes and then it was quiet and we stayed up there for another hour talking about plans for the rest of the year, trips we wanted to take, things we wanted to do before the year ended. Those rooftop conversations at the end of a holiday, when the fireworks are done and nobody wants to go inside yet, are some of our best.

The next morning we walked to the beach. Palm Beach in July is hot and humid in a way that makes the ocean feel necessary rather than optional. The water was warm, the waves were small, and we swam for about 30 minutes before retreating to the shade. G brought a book. I brought my phone and then put it away because she gave me a look. She's right. The phone doesn't belong at the beach. I know this. I keep relearning it. We stayed until about noon, walked back to the hotel, showered, and spent the afternoon at the pool. The Palm House pool is small but it has the right vibe: not trying to be a scene, just a pool with lounge chairs and a bar and enough shade that you don't have to rotate every 45 minutes the way G does at bigger resort pools.

We had dinner that evening at a place on Royal Poinciana Way that a friend had told us about. Outdoor seating, string lights, a seafood menu that leaned local. The tables were close enough are close enough that you can hear the couple next to you but far enough that you're not in their conversation. G ordered a whole grilled branzino that arrived looking like something from a magazine. I had a burger because sometimes after a day in the sun you just want a burger and there's no shame in ordering a burger at a nice restaurant. G disagrees with this philosophy. She thinks a nice restaurant demands a nice order. I think a nice restaurant should let me eat what I want. We've been having this argument for years. Both were right. The waiter recommended a rosé from Provence that G loved and I finished, which is our standard wine dynamic: she picks, I benefit. We walked back to the hotel along the water, shoes off, the pavement still warm from the day.

We had lunch at a place on the main strip that did a grilled fish sandwich and a salad that was simple and fresh and exactly right for a July afternoon.

Saturday we walked Worth Avenue again, which we'd done in 2022. Same routine: G points at things in windows, I nod, nobody's credit card gets hurt. We've done this in enough cities now that it's become our thing. Palm Beach, Venice, Vienna, London. G window-shops the way some people meditate. It calms her down. I've stopped questioning it. The vias were just as beautiful as I remembered. We sat at Pizza Al Fresco in one of the courtyards for lunch again because it worked last time and we saw no reason to change. Thin crust, glass of wine, afternoon sun, the sound of a fountain behind us. We're creatures of habit and we're fine with it.

On the way back to the hotel we stopped at a gelato shop that G found on her phone. The pistachio was excellent. The line was four people deep, which in Palm Beach terms is a mob scene. We ate it walking, which felt almost rebellious in a town where everyone else was seated and composed. Sometimes you eat gelato on the sidewalk and let it drip on your hand. Palm Beach survived.

The Brightline back to Miami on Sunday was smooth. Hour and a half, door to door. G fell asleep on my shoulder about 20 minutes in, which she denies and which happened. I have a photo. I haven't shown her. I'm saving it for the right moment.