A brief and surreal visit to the Trump Hollywood.

The view from the picture widows is so gorgeous that at first, it’s all you notice. The sprawling condominium — white floors, white walls, white ceiling — opens in a glass rectangle over a white balcony that frames the ocean and sky, two strips of rippled blue glowing in the last diffusions of sunlight, uncomplicated by money, cars, or people: a perfect tableau.

Life at the Trump Hollywood goes downhill from there.

The thing is: the place is beautiful, in many ways. It’s a good but half-baked idea made into concrete and glass then left to founder. I’m fascinated by abandoned buildings and cities—North Korean outposts, ghost towns, Pripyat—and South Florida’s own “ghost towers” are the closest you’ll find down here. Whether you see the couple mentioned in this post as privileged whiners or intrepid frontiersmen of luxury, it’s clear that something here has been left unfinished, then papered over with a name that’s wearing ever thinner, much like its bearer’s hair.

Ah, climbing the ladder.