I’m all alone on the hypersaturated fairways of Trump National Doral Miami—flush green in this sickening, unreal way, like the sheer rolling hills of the Windows XP wallpaper. I’m wandering up and down cobbled pathways, flitting between the stately driving range and shaved putting greens, dodging rolling golf carts of men in pastel chinos and white visors on their way toward $695 tee times—or just $595 if they wait for what the hotel describes as a “twilight round.” I pass by coral-toned Gothic Revival water fountains blooming with stone cherubs and press my feet into doormats stamped with the regal
Our editorial team includes several staff writers, each contributing their specialized knowledge to enhance the depth and breadth of our event and story coverage.