I hate how even saying "I went to the Hamptons" always is replied to with "Oh, aren't you lucky," or "La-dee-dah!" I went to the eastern, southern tip of Long Island for a three day weekend. I did not hob-nob with the socially elite that grace the pages of Page Six, even though I may have bumped shoulders with them at bookstores and home decorating shops. I did not cruise around in a yacht while being hand fed grapes, even though I did eat many grapes. I did not wait on any lines to get into a hot night club, although we wound up waiting at the bar for a table at a hot restaurant.
I was able to figure out why "the Hamptons" elicits such responses. Being there is a way of life, more than any one location. Houses are covered in worn wood shingles, and side roads are pebbled and uneven. The smell of ocean is impossibly close to you, wherever you may be. Stores manage to teeter on the fine line between posh product and quaint, down home feel. People are well dressed, but also sometimes barely dressed. Life isn't about work and chores and chaos. It's about strolling, and art, and enjoying everything you do. It's so hard to transport that back to Fort Lee. Where I can smell the Hudson River, but I try my hardest not to. My car needs to take me to each place, pretty much murdering the thought of leisurely strolls. People are honking, and rightfully so, because the a**hole in the left lane is holding up traffic, and WE HAVE PLACES TO GO!
But let's not forget, while some people are familiar with "The Luck of the Irish," I have come up with the phrase "Luck O' the Jewish." Instead of potatoes, potato latkes. Instead of whiskey, Manishewitz. But the luck might just be the same:
So, on my way out to enjoy my glorious three day weekend, in Ohh Laa Laa the Hamptons, my first vacation since last September, I am imagining laying out on the beach. Standing in the ocean and having salt water lap up onto me. And the news comes on, and I get to learn that Jones Beach was closed for the day because of sharks in the water. And while Jones Beach isn't near Westhampton Beach, in the grand spectrum of THE OCEAN, it's way too close for comfort. And just in case I had any persevering thoughts of the beach left inside of me, the first news was followed by news of an unknown creature floating to shore. Pretty, right? As it turns out, the found beast was actually a really old sea turtle washed ashore with no shell. How sad, and absolutely shockingly horrifying is that? It was decided: no ocean swimming for me this time around. And the one time we did make it to the beach, just after sunset, for a nice walk, a man leaving the beach warned us that the bugs were in rare form, and to stay away. Onward we went, for maybe fifteen more feet, when I was eaten alive. I think in my three minutes at the beach, I was bitten about 23 times. Who knows what would have happened if I went in the water?
In remembering my last few times at beaches in general, I remember my last trip to Cape Cod. Where I was sunbathing with a friend, and people started chatting up strangers, excited whispers turned into people jogging down the beach, over rocks. Of course, we were more than obliged to follow, and there I saw about ten beached whales. It is horrible to see. Grown men are pushing against the backs of these whales, and to no avail. I would later learn that over 65 whales beached themselves that day. I learned that whales travel in groups, all following a leader. And when a whale is ready to die, it commits suicide by allowing itself to be brought ashore where it will pass. When a leader is ready to die, it is followed by its' entire "pack" of whales.
Do you believe in the "Luck O' the Jewish" yet? I am heading down to the Jersey shore on Saturday, so I wait in tentative anticipation as to what awaits my ocean encounter then. Please don't say I never warned anyone.
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