I’m sitting on my fourth floor balcony smoking a Kuba Kuba cigar, listening to the seemingly never-ending sound of helicopters overhead. They go around and around every single night – looking for the nightly criminal who’s turn it is to run away from the authorities. Just another night in Palm Beach County, Florida. West Palm Beach, to be exact. And there go the police sirens. I’ve grown to expect this over the years. Something I thought I was leaving behind in New York a little over four years ago.