Summer, it seems, is upon us—already I can feel the promise of pizza and beer and floating face up in large bodies of water; the weather, obligingly, is shifting. Here in New York we’ve a grand tradition of getting away from our hellishly hot and humid city, which seems to have waged an ironic Cold War (in scope and attendant promise of Mutually Assured Destruction) on her citizens.
Soon, droves of New Yorkers will migrate north in a regular seasonal movement—like pink-footed geese (Anser brachyrhynchus) with expense accounts—to the Hamptons, a rarified enclave of seaside hamlets on the South Fork of Long Island. (Some do, in fact, fly.)
I’m not sure what these pampering services are, but the prices aren’t so bad—$47 to go to East, and $39.75 to go west. Fly, sweet geese, fly. #SummersComing.