Fire Island, New York (or as I grew to call it, “The Island of Fire”, which is so much more mysterious)
Every time that I heard the words “Fire Island”, I immediately imagined a Northeastern, summer-only Ibiza that catered exclusively to well-groomed gay men. Perhaps this was because I only heard about it in the summer from my gay friends, and man, it sounded like a party, but a party that I wasn’t really invited to.
That all changed when my kickball team decided to get a house there for a 4-day weekend (that we carved out of our schedules starting in January…commitment, people). Apparently there are about twenty communities on Fire Island and only two are mostly gay— you just hear more about those since they are loud, proud, and have what seems like an illegal amount of fun (we’ll go there next trip)! We discovered, however, that many of the other communities are family-themed, quiet, and filled with 80- year-olds riding bikes cheerfully. Sometimes really cheerfully.
It was a great escape, beautiful vistas (and an awesome midnight lightning storm on the beach), and uncredibly hard to get back on the ferry home.
As we did, bring your own groceries— prices on the island are insane and we spent a lot of time mocking them. Coming from New York proper, that’s saying something.
