A Love-Hate Relationship

People love to hate "The Hamptons."

People who've never been there, people who claim they never want to go there, people who've convinced themselves they're above the superficiality of this celebrated playground for the rich (and richer). But I'll tell you the truth.

There's something about the word "Hamptons" that, to most people, cues a Pavlovian-type response of disgust-slash-fear. The same response elicited when you pass a girl with what you know is a thousand-dollar Chanel bag, or the telling red soles of Christian Louboutin shoes. However, it's not just disgust and fear… in a weird way, in a way you don't exactly condone, it's also intrigue. Intrigue to know who she is, how she got that bag, where she wears those shoes, and what being her might feel like. This intrigue is exactly why—despite all the bad repute—many people still want to experience the Hamptons anyway.

People like me.

It was an easy decision, therefore, at the age of 23, to trade in a generous portion of my entry-level income for a summer share in Southampton. Finally, my friends and I would get to witness first-hand what went on behind the scenes at those glitzy parties mentioned in Page Six, the photos flaunted in the glossy pages of Hamptons Magazine, the lifestyle of wealth and excess lavishly depicted in TV mini series.

If that was the Hamptons, what we got was the total antithesis.

Come Memorial Day Weekend, following that notorious few-hour-long trek down the L.I.E., we found ourselves not in the Hamptons, but rather, a share house. Novices beware: there is quite a distinction.

A share house is NOT the summer vacation spot for Manhattan's social elite; it's a meeting ground for hoards of twentysomethings cohabiting neighboring Murray Hill buildings. It's a place where Christian Louboutin shoes are non-existent (or otherwise, stolen/murdered), a place marked not by glamour but by grunge, by flipping cups not swigging champagne.

This wasn't the Hamptons; it was FRAT Hamptons. And even without experiencing it—even without wanting to—I knew that I hated it. Hated it, and wanted to hop the first Jitney outta there.

But (perhaps because I had no choice), I stuck it out.

I stuck it out through the beer pong and the bathroom-sharing and the 40+ people pre-drinking and the mass-transporting via a party van (don't even ask about the party van).

And it was probably sometime around the next afternoon, when I went from knowing 4 people to 40 people, when I realized this was more like camp (and less like Animal House), when I was hungover and bruised and yet, laughing unstoppably, that I realized not only did I NOT hate this - but that I actually liked it. Loved it, even.

Not the Hamptons, mind you—I had yet to experience "The Hamptons." What I liked, what I loved, was being in a share house.

Years later, I've come a long way from that first summer. I am fortunate to have friends with their own private houses, with comped hotel rooms, with the estates and mansions many clubs boast. I go to parties where girls carry thousand-dollar Chanel bags, wear scary red-soled shoes, and have their photos snapped for glossy magazines. But I'll tell you the truth.

I still get sentimental when I see those camp-sized groups, transported out at night by vans, fraternizing around a communal table.

You might call it a Pavlovian response.

Copyright ©2008 by Jasmin Rosemberg