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.

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

Many New Yorkers like to nurse their hangover with more liquor, the logic having to do something with ‘keeping you liver working.’ The exact science of this theory I cannot explain, but it’s popular among Manhattan’s expat crew: Italians, Frenchies and Brazilians who all seem to body surf their way into Felix Sunday afternoons to keep daylight just as jovial as nighttime at the club.

Felix, located in SoHo on West Broadway and Grand, is the thumping heart of a much larger Sunday circle of sin. The rounds include nearby Novecento, Café Noir, Diva and Cipriani’s Downtown. And for foreigners, there’s a zero percent chance of not running into someone you know. It’s an exercise in incest so be prepared to hear a lot of joyous shouts of recognition in a lot of different languages.

I’d stopped through Felix on a handful of Sunday afternoons, but it wasn’t until yesterday that I engaged in ‘the Felix tradition,’ a full day’s worth of productivity lost inside this French bistro/bar. Below I’ve documented my experience.

2:15 – I arrive. The place isn’t a mosh pit yet because the hardcore partiers are still sleeping. Every table however, is booked and the wait spills out into the sidewalk. Great.

2:18 – I wiggle toward the bar and see some French friends. They suggest I put my name down for a table ASAP as they were just told it’s a forty-five minute wait. I think to myself ‘that’s absurd’ and decide once my friends arrive to convince them we should go to one of the eighteen other perfectly delicious brunch places in SoHo. I approach the intimidating female maitre’de (she’ll scream at you just for darting a hopeful smile her way) and in the bar crowd almost trip over someone’s small dog.

2:20 – As I avoid nose diving into someone’s drink, I hear the owner of the leash I’m entangled in calling out to the dog I almost killed, ‘Cocoa. Cocoa’

I slowly double-take. I know a dog name Cocoa…

I look up to see the leash leads to the hand of my uncle who’s at the bar next to me enjoying a scotch. WTF?

2:42 – I’m still awkwardly chatting with my uncle while I wait for my friend Jewel and her sister to show up. They’re thirty-minutes late, something to do with a frozen bottle of champagne exploding. Me: ‘But why were you opening champagne at two in the afternoon?’ Her: ‘We thought it would get us moving?’

3:00 – Our entire party has arrived but we’re still waiting on a table. Waiters attempt to kick out patrons who are just nursing drinks. An odd French man-couple sits across from each other passing back and forth white plastic sunglasses, which they each wear for five minutes before switching off again. They seem to think they’re super trendy. Weird.

3:23 – We’re joyous as we finally sit. The problem is I now have to run a few block home to let someone in my apartment. Jewel promises to save my seat. I look at the steaming plates of Eggs Benedict and bubbling soups, drooling.

4:00 – I rush back to Felix while receiving texts from Jewel like: “They are being aggressive! Trying to put us in one table and steal your seat / the other table. We’re trying to hold down the fort!” and later, “They keep coming to ask what the status is. I made up that you went to buy cigarettes. They were like, ‘those better be some amazing cigarettes.’”

Tables and Felix are so hard to come by on weekends that most diners develop some sort of strategy (usually the only strategy is to order more and more food) to keep a hold on seats until the evening dancing hours. We were no exception.

4:31 – I come back to a table full of Mojito pitchers. Jewel and her sister are analyzing the crowd and guessing people’s nationalities. We hone in on a beautiful boy with the thickest hair we’ve ever seen and a Patrick Dempsy look alike by the door. This is by far the best people watching in Manhattan.

4:33 – Starving, I order a $17 Croquet Madame. Rip off!

4:45 – Did I say rip off? This is the best Croquet Madame of my life. It’s so incredibly cheesy, what is this cheese!!! This egg is perfectly runny. Take $27 for it. I’m trying to convince myself not to order another.

5:24 – About six friends have pulled up chairs around our tiny table and we’re now on pitcher five…six?…of mojitos.

5:57 – Traditional Brazilian dance music is now blasting. Our waiter has vanished. More mojito pitchers still manage to be ordered.

6:03 – Recognize Italian friends of mine in the sidewalk party outside. Bang furiously on the window in an attempt to get their attention. Other random men on the sidewalk think I’m motioning to them. They now crudely hit on us through the window using their tongues as a seduction tool. Gross.

6:27 – Italian friends finally notice my attention getting attempts and battle the congestion up front to reach our strategically held table. More chairs are pulled up. The female maître’de comes over in a hissy fit and rearranges our table so the over-capacity restaurant’s not such a body lock. We comply.

6:41 – I’m officially drunk.

6:46 – Listen to my Italian friend tell me a rumor that fifteen years ago when Felix first opened and was patronized by Wall Street bankers, they used to put half a pill of Uppers in a table’s first mojito pitcher to get them rowdy and ordering ten more. That’s how mojitos became so famous.

Me: Whaaaat?

Him: No one knows if it’s true.

7:20 – I realize it’s 7:20. I have dinner uptown at 8.

7:21 – Attempt to get one of the dancing waiters to bring us our bill.

7:28 – The bill’s finally delivered and completely illegible. We send it back to them and ask them to decode.

7:31 – We receive a readable version of the bill. Food $69. OK, reasonable. Drink: $230 Total, three-hundred and fifty something. Whaaaat?

7:35 – Re-gather Brazilian friends who ordered an extra three pitchers on our tab (FYI pitchers are sixty-something dollars. Good to know.) American Express cards and cash, the only acceptable forms of payment, are tossed into the middle of our table.

7:41 – With a lot less cash on my hands, I slither through the now jumping crowd and make it out of the sweaty restaurant onto the sidewalk alive.

7:45 – I catch an uptown train and upon sitting in the subway, realize I’m irrevocably more wasted than I was on Saturday night.

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