Which Hampton Are You?
Ah, summer. The season where New Yorkers pack their tennis whites and Hermès Oran sandals into a leather weekender; throw it in the back of a Blacklane, Blade, or their own Range Rover; and head out to Hamptons. (As Chuck Bass says in the canonical Gossip Girl episode 'Summer, Kind of Wonderful': 'What's a jitney?')
Well, uh, the generationally wealthy ones anyway. The rest of us? We're stuck in a city that smells like microwaved garbage, wondering what white collar crime or Anna Nicole Smith-style marriage we've gotta commit to afford a house in a town where the median sales price is $24.9 million.
Like me! For years, I've been a guest—never a resident—in the Hamptons. Instead, I twiddle my thumbs in my apartment until I get that text from that friend inviting me to that house. I accept immediately, and express my gratitude profusely. Then I schlep out on the Ambassador with an overstuffed LL Bean tote bag and a hostess gift that's more like a religious offering to an ancient summer deity: 'Please, oh benevolent god, let this olive oil and Fuyu persimmon vinegar set from Flamingo Estate prove my worthiness to swim in an in-ground pool and drink rosé at Topping Rose House.'
So, as I wait by my window A.C. unit for an invite to come through, I decided to pass the time with the following activity: writing a satire about the type of people you meet in the Hamptons.
By god, I hope one day I'm one of you.
East Hampton
This was supposed to be the summer you opened Hither Lane, your artisanal jams and cashmeres concept shop in East Hampton. But then your Bernadoodle, Beau, got in a fight with one of Martha Stewart's Chow Chows outside the Chanel on Main Street. The poor thing almost lost an eye. With all of this going on, you simply didn't have the time to run a store that's open from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m., Monday through Wednesday.
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