Accepting an invitation to stay in the Hamptons is like journeying into a black hole. No matter how well you know your host or how great they ensure you their set up is, until you’re physically on the premises you should be prepared to accept both a caddy shack and a castle. You can never fully know what you’re getting into. If someone guarantees you a bed, pack an air mattress. If they say there’s a fulltime chef, pack ramen. If they say you have a ride, reserve worst-case-scenario jitney seats.
Do I sound paranoid? Well, New Yorkers are liars, folks. And especially in the Hamptons, it’s every camper for themselves. Plus I had some bad experiences last year which left a particularly bitter taste in my mouth.
Bartok, my friend whose visits I use as an excuse to act like a sixteen-year-old, had arrived Thursday night. Our plan was to train it out to the Hamptons Friday as soon as I finished work around 6 PM, the logic being that anyone driving would’ve already left and that the highway would be bumper to bumper with people having just departed from their office. Immediately, our Hamptons karma seemed to be recovering from last year since we
a) were offered a last minute ride
b) by a driver who wasn’t insane
c) by a driver who also had the good sense to take us out for post-work Grey Goose shots, Coronas, and appetizers at a gemstone of a restaurant called the Water Club, a scenic, peaceful place literally in the river with a pianist and waiters in bow-tie uniforms. This was smart because we
d) missed the hoards of ‘people leaving the city early’ traffic and got to our destination in Watermill in a shocking hour and forty-five minutes.
Getting to the Hamptons that fast on a holiday Friday felt like cheating on a test. By waiting till 8 PM to leave the city, when you think traffic would be detrimental, we actually coasted at a safe speed through clear roads. The satellite navigation system, which I named Sandra, got us to our destination without a single wrong turn. As our kind driver said, “I’ll take shots over traffic any day.” And I hope to use this logic again in some sort of future scenario.
No previous Hamptons house could compare to the kingdom we drove up to. It was large, Great Gatsby-like and impeccably furnished with a pool, rolling grass, hammock, cottage, enormous deck and dock since it was literally on the water. Rumors of the chef were true as well, as he was already dicing onions in the kitchen and looking peeved. Come to find out, the chef was unendingly peeved, but we’ll get into that later.
Survivor-style, Bartok and I took over the first bathroom we could find to shower and make ourselves Hamptons worthy. My friend who’d invited us, who we’ll call Fahotti, is from a Middle Eastern country I’ll leave nameless. For some reason, I’d assumed everyone in his house would share his accent, skin color, and place of origin. Hence my surprise when we joined the group at dinner and found that his male friends in the house were so classically American that unaltered, they could’ve been posing for a J.Crew catalogue. Ladies were present too, and we all enjoyed a delicious home cooked meal of fresh baked bread, mushroom stuffed chicken and summer soup made from scratch.
Pink Elephant was the evening plan.
My largest Hamptons concern has always been the car issue: crazy drivers, drunk drivers, space in the car, getting left behind. All these worries were blissfully eliminated as the home’s organizer had hired two drivers in huge black SUV vans to transport the house’s entourage (which would increase throughout the weekend to number around 60 people on Sunday night) to and from the club.
Gossip floated around for weeks that Pink Elephant would not be able to stay at the Capri Hotel where it enjoys an outdoor space. Some claimed Pink would move into Tavern (too big), others said it would be at Capri but be limited to indoors (too small). Anyway, this hullaballoo was all lies and more lies. Pink is exactly as it was last year with perhaps quieter music outside, which let’s face it, is a blessing when you want to give your eardrums a break or God forbid, have a conversation with someone.
Being May, it remained too chilly for people other than chain smokers to spend a lot of time outside, which means the inside of the club looked like this:
This body mash would’ve been a downer, but our prepared host had ensured we receive a spacious table in front of the DJ booth and near the door (breeze, yes!). Pink in the Hamptons is unabashedly more commercial than Pink New York and primarily played Top Forty while mixing in some old school favorites. Because let’s face it, when you’re drunk and on vacation with your friends, you’d much rather have everyone jumping up and down to Usher than doing that whole sophisticated euro house thing. At night in clubs in the Hamptons, no one’s even going to try and pretend to be sophisticated.
Yes, there was some fun drama and unexpected scuffles. My gold watch that looks like a Bulgari, which I actually bought for $5 from a war veteran by Ground Zero, got entangled in a nearby girl’s fro. I apologized and thought that kind of accident could be categorized as the standard party endangerment one accepts when entering a club packed to the ceiling with Patron-filled people, but she took personal offense and seemed ready to stab me with her shoe horn necklace (being the courageous person I am, I ran away). A Belvedere bottle some how landed / launched / fell onto Bartok’s bare foot, creating a bruise which she complained about for days. And security had to control some intense table feuds and drunk-ready-to-fight frenemy situations. But I learned last year that Hamptons clubs aren’t a classy place. So instead of being appalled, I took in the rowdiness with a smile and sip of champagne.
Clubs are a bout of extra intensity in the all-day fiesta that is the Hamptons. Clubbing seems to serve as an opportunity to get everyone out of the house, a human dog-walking of sorts. Back at the castle post-club, the music continued. Someone who really wanted to see girls get naked had the smarts to turn the pool up to 90 degrees. Everyone can imagine what happened from there.
On this night (night number one), I claimed an actual bed and had the feeling several people would join me. One girl did midway through the morning. Keep in mind that Friday however, we were an assortment of only twenty people. This number would increase exponentially as the weekend progressed.
To Be Continued…
Miss Model Behavior’s the new nightlife writer for theBlaqlist.com. Feel free to post any nightlife comments or questions on our forum or contact her at MissModelBehavior@theBlaqlist.com
