In case the name Starwood means nothing to you, it's the parent company of several hotel chains you have definitely heard of, including Sheraton, Westin, W, and St. Regis. With hotels at virtually every price point, Starwood dominates the industry, but in recent years, their focus has been on developing more high-end properties. Thus the expansion of the St. Regis brand from a mere 10 to nearly 30 resorts, and the rolling out of new members of the elite Starwood Luxury Collection. The Singer Island Resort on Singer Island in West Palm Beach in beautiful, vapid Florida is their latest.

Singer Island is tiny, but like a natural beauty who doesn't have to try too hard, it's blessed with amazing natural assets: namely, a stunning stretch of white sand beach and close proximity to fabled snowbird escape Palm Beach (though perhaps most infamous now as the locale of the mid-'90s Kennedy rape case). Prior to the opening of this resort, the nicest hotel on Singer island was a Best Western-type place (you know, the one-star kind with a paper sanitary seal on the toilet). The developers of this luxe condo/hotel hope this is the beginning of a new era: the influx of fresh, young, new money.

I had never been to Palm Beach or West Palm Beach, and the first surprise was how close it is to Miami: about an hour drive. Jet Blue flies there direct from NYC in just about three hours.

On most trips, the highlights are never what you think they are going to be. Cruising the mansions of Donald Trump and Rod Stewart and a stroll down Worth Avenue — lined with Gucci, Vuitton, Tiffany, and Prada — weren't nearly as interesting as a visit to the Norton Museum to see the eclectic fashions of Palm Beach resident Iris Appel (an exhibit that had formerly been installed at the Met). And a fully catered sunset sail is always nice, but I didn't feel like I got a true taste of the new, young Palm Beach until our night out at the area's hot new nightclub, Noche.

The age range at Noche was 16 to 60, and though the crowd was WASPY white, the music could only be described as "booty thumping." The crowd was ridiculously sexual, bumping and grinding like an outtake from Snoop Dogg's latest X-rated video. One of the journalists, a native New Yorker, got her crotch (or as she called it, her "va-jay-jay") grabbed on the dance floor. She screamed, yelled, and beat the perp to a near pulp. Later, a coked-up blond and her admirer tipped over and hit their heads, leaving behind a pool of blood as they were mysteriously whisked into the kitchen, never to be seen again.

It was better than any recent night out in Manhattan; New York nightlife is rarely this messy anymore. We soon discovered we weren't imagining things, as we heard the publicist who brought us shrieking at the owner through her cell phone: "You could have mentioned to me that it was Swingers' Night!" Who knew clubs still had these in Palm Beach, or anywhere else?

We could not stop talking about our big night out at lunch the next day, much to the horror of the prim and proper 60-something head of the Palm Beach Visitors Bureau, who smelled faintly of gin and was dressed as one might expect, in head-to-toe Lily Pulitzer with a grosgrain ribbon wrapped tightly around her blond ponytail. This poor woman did her best to dissuade me, but I was sure we had seen the conflicted soul of this outwardly pastel-perfect playground.