Looking out across the ocean yesterday, staring at the sail boats, I was reminded of a trip I took to Fishers Island four years ago when I had just arrived in New York. Such a virgin. The house was similar, only the one in East Hampton is younger and has fewer bedrooms, but the dramatic locations are the same and both had managed to clear the garbage and the imagined injustice from my mind. Sea air and sancerre is the perfect balm.

I love being a moocher. I will stay anywhere if all I have to do is babysit and bake brownies. I can entertain guests with anecdotes of shaven testicles and regale old men with fabricated stories of past croquet victories. Seriously though, I can do it all. Just as long as there was a welcome to outstay in the first place and the hosts were never a bunch of total fucking wankers.