BOCA Raton translates charmingly from the Spanish as "rat's mouth". It may sound insalubrious, but it sure ain't.
Padding around its upmarket Mizner Park shopping mall, in my new deck shoes, pristine chinos and a Dubya Is God T-shirt, I felt seriously scruffy.
Understandably. The Rolls and Ferraris in the parking lot would be ferrying their owners and their perfect teeth back to faux ante-bellum white houses lining the Intracoastal Waterway, with a monster motorcruiser moored on the edge of a manicured lawn. You get the gist. Praise the Lord that we, too, had a swanky gaff to get back to.
Boca Raton doesn't have the snobby chill of Palm Beach, further north up Florida's Gold Coast, but it is still a safe, orderly universe, away from the teeming mayhem of Miami.
At the centre of it is the Boca Raton Resort And Club, a pink vacation fantasy that beguiled us from the moment our "economy class" hire car - twice the size of my Honda at home, but a runt alongside the leviathans around it - purred through the gateway.
Flunkeys, clean-cut, democratic flunkeys, whisked the vehicle away to valet parking and escorted us into a teeming foyer.
It was late Saturday evening, so we weren't aware how unremittingly pink the resort's exterior is. We did note architectural flourishes doffing their cap to Moorish Spain and Renaissance Ruritania, but the full impact would dawn with the dawn.
Inside, it was busy, busy, busy. Dawson's Creek clone teens were flirting at one end of the vast entrance hall. In Mizner's Monkey Bar, the Rat Pack were playing (in absentia) for more mature couples, shuffling cheek to cheek. We were so done in by the transatlantic flight (changing at Philadelphia for the connection to West Palm Beach), we crashed out after a room service pizza.
Surf and turf
The next evening we dined in the flagship Ocean Blue, on top of the 27-storey tower annexe - each of us tackling "surf and turf", i.e. a fillet steak that would overface a quarterback, with a lobster that must have terrorised the deep - while a waiter discussed the merits of Chaucer with us. It could only be America.
The family-friendly, facility-packed resort could only be America, too, despite the architecture. A private ferry service links the main resort to the Beach Club on the Atlantic.
THE OTHER WEST COAST: Florida's Gold Coast
We were staying in the original building, The Cloister, built in 1926. It's secure: the G8 world economic summit was held the week before our visit, and Bill Gates and 79 other captains of industry were flying in as we left.
I could have played tennis on tournament-quality courts, or golf on two 18-hole courses, but the lure of the new Spa Palazzo, an Alhambra lookalike with better plumbing, won out. This was worth splashing out on, with its variety of pools and showers, inspired by a Spanish explorer's search for the fountain of youth.
All this pampering smoothed away the disappointment of our Burt Reynolds quest. No, the star of Deliverance and Smokey And The Bandit wasn't a fellow-guest. I was just strangely drawn by his hometown of Jupiter Beach, an hour north. Celine Dion has a mansion there, too: you can see the kitsch appeal.
Hollywood hunk Burt's star faded in the eighties, and he retreated to Jupiter, where the Burt Reynolds Ranch offered a wedding chapel, the Burt Reynolds Petting Farm (don't ask) and a restaurant, before bankruptcy sent it all down the pan. But there's still an independent Burt tribute museum. So, hoping to bathe in the great man's aura, we headed up Highway One.
We never made it. First, we were enticed into the Gumbo Limbo environmental complex, just outside Boca. I like the name (it's a kind of tree). I liked the place - a preserved piece of original Florida barrier island. Elevated boardwalks link palm hammock and mangrove wetlands.
The Red Reef Park, on the coast side of the highway, is a major breeding ground for sea turtles. During the breeding season, local residents agree to mask all lights, to avoid luring the turtles to their doom across the busy road.
The charms of laid-back Delray Beach also seduced us from our quest. The Blue Anchor pub there was imported, brick by brick, from Fleet Street by former Daily Mirror journos. Burt finally bit the dust when we diverted to Boca's Town Center Mall, and I succumbed to i-Pod fever, buying one a third cheaper than you can get it in England.
This is a soothing part of Florida, but it was worth combining it with a few days in Miami. As usual, we loved the sheer buzz of the city's cultural mix, especially people-watching in South Beach.
We stayed at the Mandarin Oriental, a stupendous, Asian-cool hotel. The presidential suite once hosted Michael Jackson for a month. He autographed paintings there - someone else's.
Our own more modest suite had its work of art - a view of the financial district's high rises after dark, offering a glorious kaleidoscope. Alas, not a shade of pink in sight.
