Beware the Summer Invitation

As I lay on the bed with the sheet over my head, sweat pouring down my face, trying not to be mosquito bait; I deeply reconsidered the summer invite. Yes, it is generous, “please come out to the beach house, its beautiful here”; “get away from the oppressive city”; and “it’s so relaxing,” the siren call of the summer.

But oh the reality—the traveling, the traffic, the ferry ride, lugging all the food, wine, bug repellant, sheets and towels. Shall we begin to add up the costs as well? There’s that full tank of gas, ferry tickets, food, libations, and that free little weekend has now cost you almost $150. Still your accommodations are free, right? Let’s examine that principle: most summer houses are not the most luxurious of places, unless you happen to count millionaires as you’re closest friends. There is usually the choice of single beds, lumpy mattresses, painted shut windows, and that alluring smell of mold. Forget a fan, not with these ocean breezes. There is always the thrill of grilling outside, if you survive the attack of the flies and swarms of mosquitoes as hungry as you are. Of course, you can’t possibly eat outside, see above, there aren’t enough citronella candles in Christendom to protect you; bug zappers only give you a false sense of security, they’ve got numbers on their side. But are you really safe inside? That screen door that doesn’t quite close or that fellow guest who isn’t quite as vigilant or worse doesn’t get bitten. The constant need to be ready, newspaper in hand, to squash and stalk those insistent buzzing insects. Relaxing? I think not.

And then there is the beach. Okay, it is beautiful and if you’re lucky it’s not too crowded, the flies not too omnipresent, the volleyball team has decided not to practice, and a family group of ten has chosen not to put their blankets, coolers and radio three feet from your beach chair. There are a few caveats: don’t try to read the newspaper, eat, keep an umbrella upright with gale force winds, forget the sunscreen and fall asleep as you burn to a crisp. Forget going in the ocean, it’s too rough, jellyfish, seaweed, too many surfers and not a lifeguard to be found.
 
But then after your enervating day at the beach it is finally cocktail hour. Hurray, it is time for a gin and tonic or maybe three. Oh yes, and then dinner must be made, open the wine and then start refereeing the guests. Beware the disagreements, with no Internet to solve the silliest questions, steer clear of politics, religion and retelling of television plots.

Finally it is time to go to sleep and you head to your hotbox of a room exhausted from the sun and there is that telltale buzzing sound at your ear. You have a new roommate. And you wake up covered with bites and pretty sure you slept for only two hours.
 
I might be turning down that next invitation; only under that sheet sweating as I tried to fall asleep I could hear the ocean with the waves crashing on the beach. And that ferry ride home at night with the stars, the Milky Way, and the moon to light your way home. Do you think they might invite me back in late September?