I took my daughters out to Montauk, the anti-Hamptons Hamptons, and we had a blast amongst the ratty surfers, Manhattan summering families, and local Long Island folk; we stayed at a hole-in-the-wall resort on the beach with wood-paneled rooms and tattooed staff (I discovered this upon arrival), we ate fresh fish tacos every day, and built bonfires on the beach way past our bedtime. Richie, one of the owners of the resort, seemed especially charming and helpful with his local jargon, defense of the underdog small business owner, two different colored socks (?) and thirty torso tattoos. Yes, Richie is the real deal; a real redneck, that is...and the first one I have met on the east coast:

Richie: (to Iris) "Hey there, that's a great T-shirt. You do that yourself?!" (tie-dye)

Iris: No response.

(We are city folk. We don't talk to strangers. Especially not ones with pictures all over their bodies...)

Richie: (To me) "What, don't she speak English?!" Suddenly, Richie was no longer country-bumpkin-charming. Richie is just a country bumpkin. And stupid.

(We're Asian.)

Me: Smile. "Why, yes. She does." And she speaks better English than you, Richie -- at six years old. Take that. I smiled again. Kill. With kindness.

I put up with the wafting scent of falafel in my bathroom, crazy subway patrons, and sewage in my sandals every time it rains so that my children and I do not have to put up with people like Richie. Just because we don't have to.

I (still) heart New York. City, that is.