From House To Home

It seems to me that the general consensus among New Yorkers is that the island of Manhattan is the only place to be—until the needle on the thermometer hits 85 or so—then everyone wants out for the weekend. All at the same time. So like everyone else, I pack my little bag and escape. But while many sit in traffic for hours or board overcrowded buses to the Hamptons, I hop on a train and retreat to the Jersey Shore—to Point Pleasant, town of my birth. “Why are you always going down to your parents house?” is a question I’m often asked by puzzled co-workers. But while it may not seem particularly glamorous to many, it has been my getaway of choice for the 11 years I’ve inhabited the city.

Leaving the heat-addled concrete jungle, even for two days, can make quite a difference in any humidity-fueled foul humor that may have surfaced during the week. I’ve even learned to embrace dashing through the heat radiating off the pavement with its relentless cacophony of horns and sirens in anticipation of descending into the darkness of Penn Station. It’s like having an eject button, an escape hatch to whisk me away from the steady chaos.

Maybe it’s because I’m biased, but there are so many reasons my hometown is the ideal weekend getaway. First of all, it’s free: I know people who pay piles of dough for dumpy little beach houses that they share with a small army of friends. Ideal because my mom and dad’s house has three things crucial to a relaxing summer weekend: A pool, a hammock, and a dock. (Though the dock doesn’t actually count, since there’s never been a boat tied to it. This odd fact can only be explained by my eccentric family, and they alone could fill an entire year of my column).

Ultimately, it’s ideal because it’s home, and so many happy memories permeate not only the interior but the exterior of their property. I can’t count how many birthdays, anniversaries, and extended family dinners have taken place outside in view of the sun descending behind the trees across the river. How many pinatas we wacked on our birthdays, how many times we sat with our tanned feet dangling over our ever-boatless dock.
I associate weekends in Point Pleasant with relaxation, with summer, and with family. With mosquito bites and lightning bugs and the ice-cream man slowly rounding our cul-de-sac. With underwater handstands and colorful towels drying in the sun. To me, the question is, why wouldn’t I want to spend the weekend at mom and dad’s?