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| Blair Plays Houseguest in the Hamptons. By Blair Sabol Everyone loves to hate The Hamptons. Too nouveau riche, too entitled, too indulged, too disconnected, too extravagantly ridiculous. Not to mention too many white-tented "charity parties" under the guise of "giving back" when a lot of it is simply pretentious PR. Too many pictures and reports of Alec Baldwin and Donny Deutsch with assorted middle-aged women in too many micro mini sundresses with fat thighs and inflated lips. But love it or leave it, many still take their annual masochistic Hamptons pilgrimages as renters or house guests. |
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| Personally I left the Hamptons thirty years ago and have refused to make a return visit. I remember when you could make a left hand turn anywhere in downtown South or East during July and August, and many of my writer friends had modest get-away bungalows. Kind of like Jackson Pollock's painting shack which still stands as a shrine to what it all was and meant so long ago. |
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Back then it was a tough but do-able drive if you left the city by 3 p.m. on a Friday and returned by twilight on a Sunday. Now all anyone talks about is the ETA in either direction. I kept hearing how "Wednesday is the new Friday" and "Tuesday is the new Sunday." Meanwhile all of it is a hellish realm and a parking lot ALL OF THE TIME! Which is a major dealbreaker for ever going in the first place. People told me of more longstanding Hamptonites fleeing in the summer (giving their places up for rent or sales) because this scene has become so intolerable.
And how about the notorious vegetable stand? Long ago they were incredible. Now they have become "status" with the roadside owners (farmers?) loading their bushel harvests into their Dolce and Gabbana totes. A small bag of three peaches was $8. Actually the taste of their tomatoes and their extraordinary sweet corn is still one of THE main reasons to endure the humiliation of getting there. Then again there is always Jersey! But my dear friend Nancy Davis kept inviting me over the years. She insisted I had to come to her particular "set up" as she and her husband Michael ("master builder") Davis live a very different Hamptons existence. I finally said yes, even though I am never ever a "house guest" (I am a confirmed "hotel slut" and am hooked on SERVICE). Plus traveling longer than an hour is not an "adventure" for me — it's an act of extreme peril.
I already knew they were a couple dedicated to doing it right or forget it. It takes one to know one. The week before I arrived (mid-August) there were a lot of newspaper items about the Hamptons being the "rudest enclave" in existence. Worse than any other beach community in the world! There is even a HamptonsRude.com. Too much "silly money" mixed with too many highly charged egos. Everyone is demanding and impatient. Apparently August is the "rudest month." I guess people feel summer's last gasp and making a final scene in order to be seen is the way to go. So more people invade. There are more meltdowns, more steroidal screaming matches while waiting in line for a parking space or a bagel. I was assured by many that this hideous behavior dissipates in the Fall and Winter. But who could wait for that ... It was now or never for me! It's obvious that there are the obnoxious"Hedge Fund bad boyz and girls" and then there is Michael and Nancy Davis. (Although they do do business with the Goldman Sachs set and the "Hedgies"). They are "in it but not of it." Neither one of them socially swims in that financial pool or wants to. They are way too busy. 65-year-old Michael practically "owns" Sagaponack. For over 12 years he has become famous for building English Country Manor homes (shingled style with historic chimneys.) These are not the grotesque McMansions. He has turned the Sagaponack potato fields into Cotswold-themed dream homes. No longer is beachfront the most desired setting. He developed Parsonage Lane as an incredible retreat of English estates around Parsonage Pond. Each house looks like authentic 100-year-old homes from the outside except inside there are state of the art giant bedrooms, swimming pools, theaters, gyms, dens, blah blah blah. |
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| Wife Nancy is "the Plumbing Queen" and is in charge of all the bathroom and kitchen designs and fixtures. (They are a combined family with grown children and met 18 years ago over a toilet bowl ... don't ask). The Davises are the hardest working design team I know. They eat blueprints and punch lists for breakfast. They both have lived (and still do) full time with no summer getaways in the Hamptons for the past 25 years. They hardly ever leave except for an escape to Anguilla for a breath. 54-year-old Nancy is from Syosset/Oyster Bay, and Michael is from England (thus the Downton Abbey aura). Both have had a front row seat during this high flying Hampton housing explosion. There has never been a recession for The Davises. Though it was reported this summer that more $11 million homes were being sold (Davis majors in $22 million), he is doing just fine. |
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| Michael and Nancy are very quiet about the whole Hamptons rudeness reputation. They are experts at dealing with those "piece of work" or "over the top" types. They too are perfectionists and expect only the best of themselves and others. OCD really works here. They must be great since they had to put up with me — the "houseguest from hell."
First of all I had shipped my six pieces luggage one week ahead of time since I am of the Liz Taylor take-it-all-with-you-and-don't-shop-for-even-a toothbrush at the other end. I then got a call that my luggage had arrived, but everything was "seriously filthy.” It frightened me that I was already behind the houseguest eight-ball, and I figured their house was all white. It isn't. |
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| When I arrived Nancy had had all my bags cleaned and pedestaled. Already the Davis mansion was better than any five star hotel. Their own interiors are not overly done. Everything is carried out with exquisite clean and comfy livability. It's 6400 square feet of five bedrooms, a major kitchen (Nancy), an indoor lap pool, outdoor pool, extraordinary fruit trees, "wellness center,” blah blah blah. When I arrived (after a typical four-hour long traffic stand still on a Tuesday night), I complained of having nauseating acid reflux. In seconds Michael presented me with a natural herbal elixir while Nancy got me a Zantac. But it was one of Michael's sensational martinis (he uses special olives that only he can get) that cured me. |
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| To be clear I was not there as a potential client and they were not into impressing me. Their intense attention to detail is simply The Way It Is Done in their lives. We talked about everyone in the Hamptons, who was there "workin it” — including their Sagaponack neighbors Bill and Hilary Clinton who were reportedly "not looking good and were there to ‘heal.’" But The Davises don't "work it" as "Live it." A hard balancing act to do.
Over the next two days they gave me a tour of their incredible neighborhood spec homes. Michael crisply explained that his goal was not to design "TMZ listings, but an entire lifestyle. I want you to live in a house that has everything you need. And the best of it. You should never feel you have to leave." And face the awful people and the traffic! — which is what I was thinking. |
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| This is the way Nancy and Michael do it. They have created a resort life for themselves and they hardly have to go off premises. Michael's offices are in a deluxe stable across the drive and Nancy works out of an edgy steel container trailer by the gorgeous hydrangea lined garage. It took me 30 minutes to sink into a "comfort coma." In my room was a Direct TV flat screen, piped in music of my choice, perfectly set AC, a Berkeley 7-inch high mattress that cured me over night of my sciatica pain. The Davises gave me a masterclass on luxury housing and service. |
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| I always thought The Hamptons designs were only about beachfront properties with highly manicured green hedges, white graveled driveways and Something's Gotta Give interiors. In fact. after that movie everyone I knew wanted that Hamptons house and have an affair with Jack Nicholson. Except movie director Nancy Meyers (and genius stylist herself) created that interior in Hollywood and Jack Nicholson is not available.
That is one interpretation. The Davises is another. Their house is over 12 years old but immaculate (of course) and a "work in progress." They both cook but they have three in help and all meals were thoughtfully wholesome and served with no muss or fuss. In the early morning Michael made me his smoothie of kale, rice milk, ginger, fruit and major elixirs. It was much better than my espresso. Then he did his morning swim/workout and vanished to his office at 8 a.m. where he remained having his high tea at 4 p.m. and back to the main house at 8 p.m. |
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| I swam in both pools, used Michael's "special detox" sauna (soundtracked with Sade) which lets you sweat without serious dehydration. (Don't ask me how). I did yoga in their wellness center, toured their magnificent gardens with imported wishing wells and vintage bird houses. When I returned to my room on my bed was a gift of a wallet from Coach, my complimentary slippers and robe. Kiehls amenities were stashed in my bathroom. Michael told me he liked designing "tight" houses. More than sound proofed. I couldn't hear anything outside of any room. Later we discussed the "labor intensive" side effects of owning these kinds of homes. Michael admits it "takes a village." But as part of being a "master builder" he is in charge of all of the house details (on call concierge). |
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| At dinner one night, the phone rang and one of Michael's homeowners was having a problem with his plumbing. It was 9:45 p.m. Michael excused himself and in ten minutes had it solved. All the builders I know are MIA after the house is sold and the check clears. But Michael and Nancy pride themselves on having a file of the finest "support." I gather that "help is hard to find" in this community. More homeowners spend their time stealing or poaching each others gardeners, pilates instructors, cooks, and tech heads. One of the Davis highlights was a tour of their "lower level" (deluxe bunkers) which is the size of the entire house and is no longer called a "basement." "Lower levels" are now a hot selling feature. It is the location for the wine cellar, pet ERs, staff suites, band rooms, theaters, bowling alleys, gyms. I was especially fascinated with the Davis "house control center" which was more than a grimy fuse box. It resembled HAL in "2001"— a giant room of computers and silver foiled covered pipes and a far cry from my own rusted, dented and mouse-incremented cellar. I could have eaten a full course meal off the floor. |
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| There were rooms (not closets) of house cleaning supplies and Nancy's own "CVS center" of every needed drugstore item. But my favorite room was Nancy's laundromat on the upstairs floor complete with walls lined with washer, dryers, manglers, and huge ironing tables — all looking out on the potato fields — and a flat screen TV to boot. Martha Stewart would have been jealous. |
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| The Davis's wardrobe closets are normal rooms, not football fields of color-coded shoe cubbies or electrical conveyor belts of clothes. There were no cappuccino makers or sofas in either one of their "wardrobe salons." The main feature of their house is their kitchen with its white glass counter tops, giant coffee machine in the wall, and all drawers refrigerated aside from the two big iceboxes. The Davis Mansion does not have an elevator, a landing strip or a roof observation deck. Nancy and Michael are "under control." |
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| By the way, towards the end of my stay a real estate friend (real estate brokers are still considered "movie stars' in the Hamptons) showed me a new $43 million beachfront house with 10 bedrooms overlooking the parking lot of a gay beach. I was so savvy I asked to see "the lower level.” It was three giant ballrooms of nothing. I passed on making a bid. |
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| My last night we ate another delectable vegetarian meal in their outdoor dining area beautifully LED lit from under giant umbrellas. I was still stoned in my comfort coma as Michael noted how the landscape resembled the English countryside and Nancy talked about the importance of most designer/builders having to be addicted to perfection.
As my last night in my resort suite, I had to admit to Michael that I was only confused about the "green" double push button toilet flush in my bathroom. After all I am used to just a regular toilet LEVER! In his most genteel English manner he explained it all to me and I was finally inducted into the 21st century level of waste management. Later Nancy explained the "infinity drain" in my shower — which had the greatest array of hoses, shower heads, and water pressures. Apparently infinity drains are the answer to the old dirty metal grid covers. Nancy assured me, "Remember Blair, anyone can build a tennis court but no one can build a deluxe bathroom like me." AGREED! |
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| The morning I left — a staff voice over my bedroom intercom announced my Kale smoothie and driver were ready. I looked at my now refurbished luggage, all carefully and thoroughly packed. Maybe I learned a little sense of perfection while I was there. I asked the "master cleaner" Janeth to check before I left that I didn't leave any telltale dirt trails. She assured me my exit was flawless.
It took me an awful 4.5 hours to return to NYC. By the time I got to my city dinner date, my acid reflux had returned with a vengeance and my "comfort coma" had crash landed into high anxiety. (Although typically I must admit that August weekends in the city are the coolest and calmest of anywhere I know!) That night I had the good fortune to catch the off Broadway hit "Buyer and Cellar" about Barbra Streisand's assistant/archivist (fictitious) for her personal “mall" of stuff in her basement. I found it hilariously poignant. BUT ... I had already seen those who were as "addicted to perfection" as she and I realized that massive lower levels are simply the norm for such high ended hoarders. So what else is new? |
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