It is that time of year here in the Hamptons when movie stars, entertainers, tennis champions, finance wizards, famous authors, tech moguls, politicians, twenty-somethings converging on share houses, European jetsetters, and retirees from as far as Israel, all come to feast on the perfect ocean beaches along eastern Long Island. For those of us without a private chef, the restaurants are overcrowded, and the roadways are jammed with cars and trucks from early morning on the only single lane highway going east and west, until late in the evening. The private clubs are busier than usual. The side streets are clogged with runners and cyclists. Navigating the back roads is a dodge. Yet for all the traffic, celebrity sightings, parties every night, the sun rises early and the moon sets. Kids will be returning from camp. The school custodians will start readying the classrooms. The traffic cops will have run out of blank parking tickets by now. The lifeguards at Main Beach will have tired of shooing bathers out of the water because someone thought they saw a shark. The local store clerks will have lost their patience with the long lines at Citarella. Marcello at Candy Kitchen will have let his beard grow a bit longer. The refuse trucks that usually make weekly trips to the landfill will now be transporting bi-weekly. A water shortage will be declared. Lawn sprinklers will be shut down. The pool heaters will be turned off for the rest of the season. The traditional fundraising events—Author’s Night, Artists & Writers softball game, Guild Hall—and the annual house parties will draw to a close. Scorching New York City sidewalks will force even the anti-Hamptonites to bus their way out to a sofa at a friend’s rental. The city is left lopsided with the balance shifting over the next few weeks. The scent of freshly picked corn and green beans at the farmstand in Wainscott is a simple reminder of what draws the world here. I wake up as early as I can, at sunrise, before the helicopters carrying yet more weekenders swirl over our home. The New York Times delivered early. The morning coffee overlooking Jones Cove. It is a paradise—a brief one.
