I step onto the grass in wedges, flute of champagne in hand, following the lead of the locals. It’s half-time, and a sea of floral sundresses and Lilly Pulitzer-printed rompers flood the polo field to partake in the tradition of divot stomping. Several women teeter on stilettos while attempting to stomp down patches of grass torn up by horses’ hooves. I’m at the International Polo Club in Wellington in The Palm Beaches, Florida, and here—in the Coco Polo Lounge—the price of admission is worth every penny.
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