I forgot that the first days of vacation are stressful.
Yesterday, after miserable traffic, we stop at the IGA in Montauk. Very triste. And very crowded. Reminds me of the Pioneer or Red Apple grocery stores in the City. I was itching to get out and get to the beach house.
Today, we are still getting settled. My partner needs a day before she lets go and goes with the flow. But we are in that day before she goes with the flow. What a difference a day makes.
We try to find a bay beach where we went last year. The driving directions were less than lovingly given, let’s leave it at that. We arrive and settle on to the beach. We swim in the water and stand on the slippery rocks on the jetty waiting for the big waves to throw us off and into the water. If you believe that last sentence, you are a lunatic. Actually, my son and I go into the water up to our knees. It is easy because the waves come to us. Two life guards on duty but no one can help someone caught in a rip tide. There are lunatic people (including parents and children) surfing the waves. Darwin’s theory in play.
We decide to look at the water and the boats from the safety of a restaurant. I am amazed that my son knows that he can order off-menu. But he is a New Yorker. He eats his chicken finger and french fries in an obviously casually self-proclaimed seafood shack.
We need some produce and I resolve that I cannot go to the UGH, my nickname of the Montauk IGA. We stop at the Farmer’s Market in Amagansett, now owned by Eli Zabar (from New York City). The staff is painfully slow and inexperienced but we manage to get some lovely looking produce. We need hamburger buns, but there are, of course, only BRIOCHE hamburger buns. For Goodness’ sake, brioche for a regular grilled hamburger? Over the top. The non-produce items do not catch our eyes. I am resigned to go to the UGH again. But first I have to pay $70 for produce and some ground beef. I have warmer feelings for the UGH because in the totality of options, UGH loses its nickname, because not so triste by comparison. Plus the IGA has discernible ice cream brands. One does not mess with new-fangled ice cream on vacations unless it is on a cone. If one has to commit fully to a tub of ice cream at least a 30 minute drive from the house, it better have a known pedigree.
My partner decides that the thing to do on the first full vacation day is to make gazpacho. I decide to nap. The rhythmic chopping soothes me to sleep. The chopping also spurs dreams involving the wife of Chucky with knives and rats. But I may just be scarred from Friday night in our home that has been reclaimed by the jungle.
I wake up refreshed. My partner is not. Every piece of produce is chopped. Vegetables into a gazpacho and fruit in a salad. Everything in bite sizes. Clearly all is not Eden. Apparently, the outdoor grill is gross and we cannot eat here; we must eat out. Her father, sister and nephew are coming and nothing is falling into place. I clean the grill to my partner’s satisfaction and fire it up to kill any microbes I leave behind.
They are late. We are staying in a house off a dirt road so you need to know where you are going. My sister-in-law and nephew live in the Hamptons all year-round and my father-in-law comes up on the weekends. My partner spent her childhood summers here. Still, although they are coming at 5pm, it will get dark and they will get lost. Realizing that my partner is not ready to let go and be on vacation, I offer to go out to the main road and guide them in. She is grateful. I am schlepping a mile down a sandy, pebbly, dusty road to help direct people who know their way around. Calm is more important than sanity.
I am standing along the side of a highway looking for a large yellow car. In NYC, we hail yellow cars. Here, I stand like an idiot on the highway inhaling noxious fumes. And some kid shouts something nasty at me from a passing car. Neanderthal and rich — a reason to mourn the direction of our society.
Is this vacation or what?
