Gold Elantra, Purple Tints...Yes, We're on the Side of the New Jersey Turnpike. Again.

A little road trip never hurt anyone...those people did not drive a 2001 Hyundai Elantra that was the spawn of satan.

A few friends and I decided to take a road trip down to Baltimore, Maryland to celebrate two birthdays and to venture somewhere off the island. Yes, I know this blog is suppose to be about surviving the Hamptons but the pangs of unemployment were pulsating through my veins and a weekend away from the daily reminder of being an out-of-work graduate seemed very enticing.

Sharon, one of the birthday girls was living down there with her oldest sister on the hunt for a teaching position. She graduated from Towson University in May and spoke about Baltimore with the admiration and excitement of a newlywed. The three other girls I went with had all been to Maryland; I was the only one who hadn't experienced its glory.

So we packed up the car and were on our way for the first of many road trips planned for this fall. About two hours into driving we found ourselves on the New Jersey Turnpike, right before the Delaware Bridge with the car vibrating in an unfamiliar way. Then smoke creeps up from underneath the car, taunting us. Alex, in the passenger seat the other birthday girl, chalked it up to rumble strips. I, in the back seat, didn't even realize what was going on and Mariela, the driver, just started to yell. We pull over, get out and see the front right tire was completely blown out.

Our hero from Allstate, I believe his name was Eric, showed up, changed the tire to a donut and we were on our way an hour later hot in pursuit to Maryland, not able to go over 50 miles per hour. Taking away the opportunity to speed from Mariela was like making her quit smoking cold turkey, but after another two hours of honking cars and flashing headlights, we finally made it.

The next morning Sharon took us kayaking in the Chesapeake Bay. We drove to Gunpowder Park and each rented a kayak, which was $15 dollars for the hour (up in the Hamptons its at least double). Even though we only made it 45 minutes and we were basically going in circles, it was very enjoyable. The crisp water meshed with the bright blue sky and spurts of euphoric laughter was strangely peaceful (and good exercise). Discussing life while keeping your balance on a kayak was a nice change from the casual lunch date.

After rowing back to the beach and peeling our sweaty selves out of our water crafts, we went back to the house to change and see the town. I was ready first and was talking to Sharon's sister about the cost of living in Maryland. She lived in a beautiful new house, four bedrooms, three bathrooms, a living room, kitchen, dining room and family room in a cute little neighborhood for the same cost as a one room apartment in the slums of NYC where your toilet and kitchen sink stare at you while drifting into a car alarm laden REM cycle.

We drove into town not too far away and ate at a little restaurant on the outskirts of the Baltimore Inner Harbor. Mariela and I split a spinach salad with shallot sherry vinaigrette and a prosciutto and goat cheese pizza plus two sodas for $23. Mouthwatering? After lunch we strolled downtown for some shopping, of course. It was absolutely beautiful. An elderly man was playing a trumpet and there were street performers busting a move with the harbor in the background. Okay, the street performers in NYC are definitely better but you don't see a young man clear four human hurdles or a shirtless man spinning on his head as you walk down the ritzy streets of Southampton.

There was so much culture here, so much texture. When I used to come home for winter break all there really was to do to entertain myself was starting an interest in a new HBO drama or hoping my fake ID would get me into bars with the majority of my high school graduating class. The Hamptons is a great place to live; its safe, the school districts are among the best on the east coast, its stunning, everything on the checklist of someone trying to raise a family. Not so much for a young person who has just emerged from the hands of a college lifestyle. Baltimore was action-packed, stirring with young life, electrifyingly gripping. It was like a cheaper, less populated and cleaner version of NYC.

A Forever 21 floral top and owl ring later, we were on our way home to get ready for a night out. Shottying the shower and drinking rum and cokes out of solo cups vividly brought back the good ol' college days and despite former complaining of cohabiting with seven other girls, this made me miss the camaraderie of living with friends. I could be considered a spoiled brat since my parents don't charge me rent and the only bills I pay is for the internet on my brand new blackberry, but I couldn't help but ponder the idea of moving out.

The seven dollar cab ride took us back downtown to Power Plant Live, an enormous, bright and inviting club that should have its own zip code. If in Maryland, you will never have to fight with your friends again over where to go considering this venue has nine different bars and clubs inside. If you want to Fight for Your Right to Party while watching burlesque dancers perform on stage but your friend would prefer the stylings of Tao Cruz and fist pumping, both desires are separated by just a staircase. Needless to say, my legs were sore in the morning.

Saying our heartfelt goodbyes over diner grilled cheeses and possibly every condiment found in a refrigerator, we embarked on our journey back to Long Island. Once we hit the New Jersey Turnpike, my stomach sank as a now much too familiar vibration shook the car. The front left tire blew out this time. Edgar from Sunoco came to save us dumb asses in distress while we unloaded all our belongings and sat in beach chairs on the side of the Turnpike. We stopped in the next town and Mariela paid $93 for a brand new tire. We we on our way again. As we're laughing about how only we would have a road trip plagued by two blown out tires, a kind citizen flagged us down to tell us we had a flat. We were at the last exit in Jersey and it had been four hours since we left Baltimore. We pull over to the shoulder and laughter erupts shaking the car harder than the blown out tire did. On four hours of sleep, hungover and agitated we were at the point of no return. If our mouths weren't laughing, our eyes would be crying.

So for the third time in 2 days, we were waiting on the side of the New Jersey Turnpike waiting for some man to change our tire.  Now stuck in Sunday evening traffic, our mapquested journey of 4 hours and 20 minutes turned into a 9 hour ride from auto hell. I could of ran home faster.

Lessons I learned from this trip:
1) Don't ever take my friendships for granted
2) Laughing so hard you pee your pants a little and having a sore stomach the next day is severely underrated
3) I miss living with friends
4) This blog may or may not turn into the Baltimore survivor
5) Learn how to change a tire

It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

Okay so Mister Rogers probably is not singing about Remsenburg, but the PBS song from the grandfather figure seemed fitting for the first day of fall.

To avoid the monotony of unemployment, I decided to attempt to enjoy the day before my seasonal affective disorder strikes. Early this morning (9:30 a.m. which is early when you don’t have to be into work until 4 p.m.) a friend and I, my partner in joblessness, strolled through the Quogue Wildlife Refuge—a nature preserve that is open 365 days a year with hiking trails that border forests, ponds, and all its natural inhabitants. The last time I was here I was about three feet tall clenching a piece of white bread and running for my life while my father swatted killer swans with his video camera. Regardless, this was a beautiful free way to enjoy the sunshine, catch up with a friend, and get some exercise.

Upon returning home, I warmed up some homemade chiptole black bean soup (which of course I did not make it) and flipped through the pages of the October Issue of Women’s Health. There on page 15 was a statistic telling me that I am 38 percent more likely to be in shape or want to exercise if I live in an aesthetically pleasing location. Well, if that’s the case I should be dying to be an avid runner or have the body of a Victoria secret model. Neither of which are true. 

Taking this into consideration (partially to avoid boredom and partially to work off the cashew butter sandwich I ate for breakfast) my father and I hoped on our bikes for some serious bonding time and site seeing.

I never really took the time to admire the beauty I am surrounded by, especially at this time of year. I was always counting down the days until fraternity parties and bar hopping that I have never really seen the Hamptons in September. Other people look out their windows to decrepit apartment buildings or dilapidated parks pushed aside and abandoned. Not me. Here, white picket fences line Old Country Road like they're framing a perfect picture of suburbia and almost every road in Remsenburg ends in the bay. I can see it from my brother's bedroom.

This is the Hamptons. This is when you reach that part of Sunrise Highway when the exits mysteriously start getting further away from each other and the lampposts are replaced with deer crossing signs, when you see more cottontails than cars, and when you can go to the beach on your lunch break. It is truly a magically pristine place and by simply taking the time to enjoy the day I got my daily dose of exercise, Vitamin D and serenity.

P.S. I am more or less transcribing this post off a cocktail napkin. It was a relatively slow night at the hostess station.

And it Begins...

I always hated blogs. I resented the wanna-be journalists who thought just because they had the capacity to maneuver their way around a web page, they felt the need to share with the world the dauntingly boring escapades of what they ate for breakfast and which park they took their dogs too. What gave them the right to have published thoughts when I’m up to my chin in student loans paying for a piece of paper that says I can do the same thing. But after four futile months of failed attempts at being a grown-up, a blog seems to be a solid way to get my foot into the door of an industry within which I’ve always known I wanted to live and breathe.

My passion for writing transpired in middle school. I learned that I just don't understand science. Chemical compounds and oxygenated ions never really registered in my brain. I detested math. The quadratic equation and exponential numbers seemed like a foreign language I would never understand. Art—for only the truly talented—didn’t strike my fancy; my final sculpting project resembled an awkward looking dog rather than a pot.

The lone subject area that didn’t bore me to mild unconsciousness or challenge my inability to distinguish different paint swatches had to be writing. As my schooling progressed I learned how to master the written word, craft flawless metaphors, perfect allegories and anecdotes, and skillfully create sensory imagery that would knock your socks off. 

I know at first, this blog may seem like mental diarrhea (a common illness plaguing many writers), but it has a purpose, I swear.

After internships and journalism classes intended to hone my craft and focus my fascinations, I realized my interests lie within travel, health, and food. I feel as if I have an innate thirst to experience the world even though I haven’t been to many places outside the tri-state area. After an internship with Fitness Magazine, I find myself constantly searching for the healthiest chip that still tastes like the greasy real kind and the quick fix to flabby triceps. It is so interesting to me that the things you consume can cure aliments or prevent diseases. And despite the fact that I can’t tell a spatula from a mixing spoon, I love new and interesting food. Okay so now what? I’m a homebody that wants to travel, I count calories and my cooking skills are an embarrassment to my Italian upbringing. I am unemployed and constantly racking my brain as to how I can change my life, change the world through words? I'm desperately trying to find a topic that makes me different, a brilliant idea that makes me unique. My answer came from my first big-girl interview in NYC. 

After a trekking two and half hours next to crying babies on the LIRR and trotting through blistering August heat down Lexington Ave, I sat down to a very pleasant interview with the editor of a prestigious magazine in Manhattan. After looking over my resume, the blonde and fabulously chic woman who spent the entirety of her life in magazine publishing and happened to owned a house in Bridgehampton, noticed my humble abode as Remsenburg, NY aka "The Hamptons." Taking a different path from the typical "tell me about yourself" questions, she asked me what it is like to live in a resort town.

Remsenburg is a small town full of old money and, well, more old money. It's about three and half miles from Westhampton Beach. The second syllable of this location has always been a central topic for discussion, usually me trying to convince others that “No, the Hamptons is not just one town” and “No, I don’t live in a mansion or have a butler and my parents did not buy me a brand new BMW when I received my license.”

From an outsider’s perspective I can see where this assumption emerges. The Hamptons are simply fabulous. The eastern part of Long Island is decorated with beautiful beaches (one of which, Cooper’s Beach in Southampton was named #1 beach in the country, yeah over Hawaii I know), unreal houses, great shopping, and delicious food, but it becomes an absolute dead zone after Labor Day.

So as I make my way through the 103-degree subway station and tried to avoid eye contact with a very creepy old man, I think about the paradise I live in and how I haven’t inhabited this place after August in the past four years. I am now a young woman with a fancy journalism degree, the plastic legality proving I am able to drink alcohol, and no real obligations (except to Sallie Mae). What better to do then share with the world a different perspective of this luxurious location, through the eyes of someone who sees it after the glitz and glamour have faded with the Labor Day festivities. What it’s like to actually get a table when you walk into a restaurant, what it's like to live in a place where the population triples from Memorial Day until Labor Day, then drops…severely. However, when the “citidiots” leave they take all the hustle and bustle with them, including my tips as a waitress, 80-degree beach days, and Sundays at the Boardy Barn. 

So from the outlook of a unemployed, recently graduated Hamptonite, I am hoping to provide you with an often dysfunctional yet usually entertaining glimpse into my interests and my life as a local... and how to survive it.