Southampton, Long Island
These are peripatetic times for the poor little Greek boy, up to the Hamptons for some sun-seeking among Wasp types, and then down to the nation’s capital for the memorial service of that wonderful humorist P.J. O’Rourke. By all means take the following with a grain of salt, but even 800 million years ago, when only micro-organisms slithered around the beaches, belonging to a private club was all-important, especially in the Hamptons. Never have I seen more chest-thumping, bandy-legged, bearded louts trash-talking as they pollute the beaches in this beautiful town. Southampton was once a luminous little village that served as a seaside refuge for New York’s civilised rich during the unbearable heat of urban summer. You know the sort of thing: white wooden houses, long green lawns, wicker chairs, yellow and white umbrellas and people who talked in what was known as Park Avenue lockjaw.
Back then, belonging to a private club was pure snobbism; now it’s a lifesaver. The barbarians have overrun the place, put up Hollywood-style monstrosities on the wide acres that once grew potatoes, and have driven prices through the roof. Staying at an old club that’s been around for a century, one I joined long ago, made my days and nights. None of the members used the ubiquitous F-word, but better yet, no mobile telephones are allowed within the common rooms and terraces, making the place feel like Tahiti when Paul Gauguin was around. A long weekend there restored my spirits, despite a night of debauchery followed by a hangover that would have been too much even for a Karamazov. Never mind. A sense of claustrophobic delirium takes over after a while in the Bagel, the light and shadow of the city summoning memories of being banged up.
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