For me, time spent in the Hamptons remains a Zen-like exercise in coping with unpredictability. Unless you’re traveling with your own set of wheels, you rarely have any say in where you go, what you do, or when you do it. You start to feel like those chubby, clueless toddlers strapped in rear facing car seats, happily oblivious, along for the ride. People with cars have the control, but are burdened with responsibility. Everyone else is enviably carefree, but consequently at their mercy.
There’s two different ways to handle this scenario. One is the aforementioned ‘toddler approach,’ which we’ll discuss today. This involves utter passivity. You go wherever your share house is going because it’s easy, it’s non-confrontational, and there are people to take care of you once you’re obliterated on Patron. The other approach, which we’ll explore later this week, involves trying to take your Hamptons destiny into your own hands. Breaking off from the herds to accomplish some sort of side mission, whether it be meeting up with other friends, attending an alternate party, or frequenting a different club. If you have a car with a GPS system, this is easy. If you don’t, this ‘mission approach’ involves attempting to brainwash your ride to align with your plans, attempting to brainwash anyone with a car to align with your plans, or taking a very expensive taxi to your plans, which you share with six other people you don’t know.
With that intro, I let myself get ‘toddler style’ dragged this weekend to East Hampton’s Grey Goose Manor, where your liver comes to die. On the plus side, they serve a dinner with remarkably tasty steak so guests don’t suffer from alcohol poisoning immediately. On the down side, there’s still enough easy-to-chug vodka to get all of East Hampton hospitalized, jailed with a DUI or both.
Further proving that the Hamptons is essentially adult summer camp, the grub was served buffet style and eating took place in the ‘chic’ version of what for all practical purposes was a dining hall (granted, with complimentary Vitamin Water and martinis as opposed to a soda machine, yet still campy in feel).
Very pink beverages where passed around by circulating cocktail waitresses, which I couldn’t consume since to me, they tasted like cotton candy. This lead me to one of the three bars to ask, “I’d like a non-pink beverage. Preferably, non-sweet. Hell, just give me a vodka-water.” The Grey Goose bar representative was extremely accommodating.
The party filled up until the entire manor was instructed to leave for Lily Pond at the same time, which the valets just loved.
The festivities continued in the parking lot for forty minutes while we created a mega traffic jam on a one-way-only dirt road and men battled one another for the attention of the frenzied parking attendants.
The best part of the night by far was when a promoter loaded ten models into the back on an Enterprise van – no, not a van with seats. I mean like an empty mid-size van used to move furniture. The ladies were helped into the stainless steel cargo hold while I tried to snap pictures. The promoter in charge violently stopped me, going as far as to physically block my camera with his hands and scream obscenities at me. So I guess he doesn’t want people to know that he treats his female entourage like cattle. I’m sad I don’t have the visual, because if that transport scenario doesn’t epitomize the Hamptons, I don’t know what does.
I woke up this past Saturday at 10 am still drunk from Friday night at Cain and instinctually knowing there was no way I’d be spending the rest of the weekend in the city. My Hamptons escape house would be too crazy for my hung over mind to handle so I eliminated Long Island as an option (last weekend the house was overcrowded and loud to the point that sleep became an impossibility. Girls with cars actually drove back to Manhattan to flee the madness at 3, 4 and 5 AM in the morning – it was that bad.) So without leaving bed, I lurched for my cell phone and dialed an ex-boyfriend from college who I knew had a share house in the fabled Jersey Shore.
After we caught up on each other’s Friday nights, I discovered he happened to be at Penn Station heading to the shore as we spoke. The proceeding conversation went something like this:
Me: So, any chance of you inviting me?
Um…well, you should definitely come out another weekend.
Why not now?
It’s only my second weekend out there myself. I haven’t been since Memorial Day. I don’t even know how to get there with the train.
That’s a dumb excuse. Obviously you’re going to figure out how to get there with the train. Why can’t I come?
[Really awkward pause.]
Me: We don’t have to sleep in the same room. You don’t even have to make-out when we’re get drunk. I just want to be poolside. I need to leave the city.
It’s not that, it’s –
You won’t even have to talk to me. I’ll bring a book.
I definitely want you to come out another weekend –
Other weekends you’ll be at weddings and I’ll be in the Hamptons. Seize the present moment.
I just –
It’ll be more fun with me there goddammit!
Well, I can pick you up at Spring Lake…
DING! DING!! DING!!! Victory!
Children, take this as a lesson as to where persistence can get you.
I’d write about my psychological theory ‘the crazy girl approach to love’ that came into play here, the theory that men really just want to be told what to do, but I already wrote that article here.
It wasn’t until halfway there on the train an hour later that I sobered up and became fully conscious of what I’d done. I was entering the land of frat boys, Guidos and sideways baseball caps without mental preparation or body armor. New Jersey Transit was propelling me directly into the jaws of the New York summer destination famous for its lack of class.
House party activities that ensued included beer pong, quarters, consuming Coors Light, eating Dominos, and this endlessly amusing game called cornhole with which I became obsessed. After defeating every person in the house and their guests, I wanted to continue playing. When I started envisioning myself conquering the cornhole sport at the next Olympic games while wearing one of those beer dispenser helmets with a wrap around straw, I knew I’d developed a problem and made myself stop. For more information about cornhole, I suggest viewing this highly entertaining video.
Ala’ Hamptons, drinking in the Jersey Shore begins around noon and continues throughout the day. The only difference is you’re drinking from a keg instead of a bottle Stella Artois and downing jello shots instead of vintage Patron. With the average age being twenty-five instead of thirty-five, the snood factor eliminated, and any form of pretentiousness or self-respect out the window, the possibility for childish fun is quadruple what you’d experience in the Hamptons. Since there are a lot of college or fraternity/sorority reunion share houses on the shore, maturity is minimal.
Unlike the Hamptons where posh nightclubs are the 1 AM after dark activity, in Jersey you venture to spots that sport cheap liquor and seven dollar lobster, like the Parker House in Sea Girt. Five dollars gets you in, then the wrap around porch with hanging plants, softly spinning antique ceiling fans, rowdy, upstairs, Top Forty dance fest and theoretically quieter downstairs, are all yours to enjoy. The place is at full force with the energy of Pink Elephant by 10 PM. The place shuts down at 12:30, making the shore an “earlier” vacation destination than the Hamptons, which I appreciated.
Lack of cabs and lack of people who remembered to stuff their ID into their beach sarong prevented us from exploring Edgars, the lone club in this area which adopts Parker House patrons post midnight. While I’ve never considered myself a Jersey Shore type of girl, my strong craving to play cornhole again might get me back there and reporting on Edgars sooner than I think. Stay tuned.
Ah, the Hamptons (sigh). Home of the $13 bagel and $150 cab rides. If that’s not enough for you, hop into your convertible and take a cruise over to the only place perhaps hipper than South Hampton itself, ShelterIsland’s SunsetBeach. Here social hour starts at around 4pm, getting rowdier and rowdier through sunset. After dark, it’s time for more $14 white peach cocktails and frolicking in the sand until the last ferry ride back to mainland reality at 1:15 AM.
The $25 price tag for a platter of carrot sticks isn’t the only thing that’s unbelievable about this place. SunsetBeach is like being transported to a European Riviera on a seven minute, as opposed to seven week, boat ride. You lounge and socialize at the café with strangers (European). You can even rent overpriced lounge chairs on the beach (European). And they even give you glass beverage containers and expensive-looking cutlery, despite that fact that you’re wearing a bikini (also European). The entire experience reminded me of La Huella, the seaside hotspot in Jose Ignacio near Punta del Este – the WASPY American version, of course.
The best news of all is that despite the fact nearly one-third of ShelterIsland is owned by The Nature Conservancy and kept in a forever-wild state; its remaining 5,000 acres are big enough to host every single person you’ve ever partied with in Manhattan.
That’s right.
Make sure the sunscreen on your face is rubbed in, because I can guarantee you’ll be bumping elbows with people you never thought you’d see sober (let alone awake in daylight hours, and in swim attire). You might even discover many of your party animal acquaintances have (gasp!) children or (gasp!) wives. I’d recommend bringing shades to guise any bouts of shock that might scramble through your eyes as you run into faces you only thought you’d see distortedly on drunken nights at Kiss & Fly. I for example ran into:
My philandering ex-boss from half a decade ago who owns New York clubs and restaurants. He used to have us organize his venue’s seating arrangements so he could go on dates while being out of eyesight of his pregnant girlfriend, who’d eat at the restaurant every night.
A former model who on previous occasions had threatened to kill me for speaking to her meal ticket, I mean boyfriend, who wasn’t only my co-worker but longtime friend (not to mention I wasn’t even single at the time…)
This unexpected treasure trove of old acquaintances had me sneaking out Sunset Beach café’s back exit, through the kitchen and past the staff porta-potties fugitive style. Nonetheless, not even a run-in with a girl who used to voicemail me death threats could put in dent in the natural beauty or serenity of this place.
As a summer party destination, it’s worth checking out for sure.
Exactly one year ago, I voyaged to the Hamptons for the very first time. The experience was not…how to put it kindly…a positive.
After drinking and changing clothes, it was time to hit our first destination. Memorial Day weekend means the grand opening of most Hampton clubs. We arrived outside of an establishment called Dune after paying twenty dollars to self park our car in a weedy patch of sand. If that cost twenty I was afraid to know the cost of valet? Fifty? It was just midnight and the heard of people already outside Dune resembled this fall’s massive immigration march in New York City. After many uncomfortable moments in line, Scruff finally picked us out of the crowd. We then past a large Maxim ad where certain douchey individuals chose to pose and have their picture taken by some kind of fake paparazzi.
When I envisioned a Hamptons club, I was thinking outdoors and on the ocean with men in suits and women with backless evening gowns sipping champagne. Instead, Dune was entirely indoors and smoky with the décor of a dive bar. It was so crowded that moving literally equaled pain. I was stepped on and shoved by some vicious Long Island girls on the way to our table, which was of course was typical toilet bowel size and squeezed between a wall and a wooden stool. For our party of twelve to fit into this area we’d have to learn the trick of the sixteen clowns who stuff themselves into one car.
The DJ was spinning a different song every thirty-five seconds. We’d literally hear ten bars of a piece of music before it changed, and we were doing transitions like Fifty Cent to the Beach Boys to Madonna to Fergie to The Red Hot Chili Peppers to Bon Jovie to Ludacris. My ears almost went into epileptic shock. Perhaps as an artist I’m overly sensitive, but songs in my book actually have a beginning, middle and end. Blending is fine, chopping them down to twenty seconds each and tastelessly scrambling them together is just unacceptable. Songs changed so often that I worried that by twelve thirty this heinous DJ would run out of material having already played every song in the English language.
As someone who goes out often, I’ve seen many drunken people in my day. I’ve seen very tipsy women leaving Marquee, I’ve seen people dancing with themselves at four thirty in the morning, and I’ve heard occasional rude remarks from people fighting over a five a.m. cab. None of this prepared me for the Hamptons, where people were just shit-faced. Behavior at the Dunes was so wildly inappropriate that it made your average New York club look like a monastery. People were dancing obscenely like monkeys, many seemed like they were attempting to imitate fourteen-year-olds at a high school dance. I saw one fifty year old man joyously try to climb the wall. The majority of the women couldn’t even stand. My male friend went to the bathroom only to witness a full-fledge fight break out – and it was only twelve thirty.
If these people were the Hamptons classy and fabulous I wanted a one way ticket back to Manhattan stat. Me and one of my girlfriends looked at each other with such confusion and disillusionment, shrugging our shoulders as to how it was possible each of the tables in this horrific institution were selling for a thirty five hundred dollar minimum. What was the world coming to?
After half an hour we escaped Dune through the back door and piled into our cars to go to Pink Elephant. I was in disbelief about what I had just seen and clung to the hope that there had been some mistake, that the fabled Hamptons nightlife was still somewhere out there.
The good news was the music at Pink Elephant didn’t make me want to knock myself out with an ice bucket. There was also an outdoor section of the club – not on the ocean mind you, but in the courtyard of some motel with fake sand. In addition, everyone from patrons to staff of Pink Elephant Manhattan was there. Creepy.
I bee-lined for the outdoor area. If I had wanted to be in a muggy indoor club I could’ve stayed in the city and gone to the bar below my apartment. While Pink’s music and ambiance was a definite improvement, the condition of the people mirrored Dune. I saw older women jumping erratically around the outdoor beds like chimpanzees and an attractive blonde hump a tree only to break into a full out striptease. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a huge supporter of drunken fun, but there’s a difference between a party and a shit-show.
The story ends with me taking a jitney back to NYC before my scheduled departure in an effort to save my soul. I’ve clearly learned nothing however, because now, one year later, I’m going to do it all over again.
Why?
Because this year I’m not a naïve outsider expecting backless evening gowns and elegant ocean side clubs. This year, I’ve mastered the game of the share house, the back up share house, and the back up-back up share house, and the sleeping bag. This year, I won’t be discovering. I’ll be aware and ready to pounce. This year, I won’t be expecting people to take care of me. I’ll be a resourceful superwomen with a premeditated plan. I’ve already negotiated 12 entrance and exit routes.
So with my fantasy Hamptons bubble already burst and the shock factor eliminated, will my feelings be as hostile as last year’s?
More about my exact plan of attack and its results coming soon…
Think New York and Vegas are hardcore? They are. But nothing can truly parallel Brazil, the culture that gave us Carnival, the caipirinha, and I’m pretty sure the concept of ‘the one night stand.’ Since the weather’s always fabulous and Brazilians are suckers for oceans, lakes, and sunrises, parties are outdoors, last till noon the next day and HUGE – we’re talking about flown in porta potties, massive outdoor tents that make your average celebrity wedding reception look lame, and multiple open bars. Because if you’re not going head-over-heels all out, you might as well stay in and make passionate Brazilian-style love.
My trip originated in Sao Paulo. Then we drove five hours in a bullet proof car to a famed Easter weekend party destination called Escarpas dos Lagos. The Escarpas lakes are outside an area of Brazil called Ribeirao Preto, which my friends described as some of the most expensive agricultural land in the world – valued at a higher price than the most fertile tobacco fields in the US. The main product is of course sugarcane i.e. ethanol, and of course you have some of the wealthiest families with ranches the size of Rhode Island near impoverished towns filled with underpaid workers who can’t even afford shoes. The parties took place inside a gated condominium where most houses had their own helipads. Before even departing from the USA, my friends had been incessantly hyping up Friday’s ‘Marina Party’ or ‘Na Sala,’ apparently the pinnacle event in this Easter weekend of non-stop debauchery.
Their excitement proved to be legit. After a SWAT team checked our tickets, bracelets and frisked us (Brazil’s big on security), we entered the equivalent of an adult party Disney World. This pre-party entrance area had Go-Go dancers above a glowing pool, bubbles galore, a massive Giudo-esque angel serenely overlooking the scene, and a Johnny Walker promotional motorboat filled with cowboys that encircled the party at all times.
And here in New York we think disco balls are elaborate…
Upon closer examination of our angel friend, I became 100% convinced that he was in fact from New Jersey. Despite my immature attempts to seduce him into coming down to talk to me, I still have no way to concretely prove this.
There were also men in silver spandex suits with the equivalent of Christmas lights wrapped around them stealthily slithering through the party. I think these creep-shows represented some unheard of Brazilian vodka brand. Sadly, their reflective suits where so glossy that flash photos of them didn’t really come out: and a huge opportunity for comedy missed. I leave you to imagine. Keep in mind; this was just the promotional fun land at the first bar. Then you entered the actual party:
I’m a newfound fan of these trippy, neon green lights, which lose their full effect in New York since our clubs are essentially tiny, underground hovels. At these house music raves, the lights can extend for hundreds of meters. At one house party, the host even had projections of green frogs dancing on the cliffs across the lake from his house (insane, yet entertaining.) Our Brazilian friends somehow negotiated our entrance into the VIP at the very back end of the tent closest to the water, where you could literally survey the entire crowd from above and feel like the neon vortex was swirling directly AT you.
Other interesting cultural phenomena of note:
-Grape juice and vodka! Brazilians in Escarpas love their grape juice. This was a mixer more common than cranberry or orange. Detrimental if you’re wearing white.
-You know how house music freaks in the US like to dance pumping their fist in the air? In Brazil, you nix the fist and pump your hand in the air while performing a wrist flick. It’s sort of a ‘come here’ movement…I’m assuming to evoke the party spirits/Gods.
-DJs dance! Maybe I’m going to the wrong places, but in New York it seems like the DJs are locked away in some dim booth, always with their head down, studiously flipping through binders of music with a puzzled look on their face, occasionally stopping to survey the crowd and take a swig out of a Poland Springs water bottle. They make standardized testing look more fun. Instead in Brazil, the DJ was the powerhouse epicenter of the party’s universe. I couldn’t even understand how he was spinning since he appeared to be always conducting the crowd like it was his own massive orchestra, flailing his hands, shaking his fingers and thrusting his head. I was the furthest away from the stand and could feel the DJs electric energy from his God-like booth on the opposite end of the tent. Talk about being dynamic!
Partying till long after sunrise is standard in Brazil, so you have the opportunity to play tourist drunk at seven in the morning and get photo ops like these.
Here’s a video I took trying to capture both dawn over the mountains and the rave below. Enjoy!
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
For me, time spent in the 
