Chap­ter 14 – The Small Sum­mer Hotel explores an endur­ing Amer­i­can pref­er­ence for mod­est sea­son­al lodg­ings, even among those with the means to choose greater com­fort. The author mar­vels at how well-to-do indi­vid­u­als will­ing­ly trade per­son­al space and lux­u­ry for bare­bones accom­mo­da­tions in small New Eng­land towns. These tem­po­rary res­i­dences, with their squeaky beds, mis­matched fur­ni­ture, and shared wash­rooms, offer lit­tle beyond sim­plic­i­ty and a vague promise of escape. The rooms, often lack­ing in both com­fort and decor, are praised only for their clean­li­ness. And yet, year after year, guests return, set­tling into a rhythm of rigid meal­times, social small talk, and rou­tine walks—rituals that replace adven­ture with pre­dictable monot­o­ny. It’s a curi­ous choice, one that seems dri­ven less by afford­abil­i­ty and more by social con­di­tion­ing.

Chap­ter 14 – The Small Sum­mer Hotel recounts the author’s per­son­al stay in one such estab­lish­ment, high­light­ing the odd charm and frus­tra­tion of the expe­ri­ence. The food, served pre­cise­ly at set hours, is unin­spired and hasti­ly con­sumed, as if diges­tion were an oblig­a­tion rather than enjoy­ment. Guests avoid indul­gence not from fru­gal­i­ty, but from a mis­placed sense of com­mu­nal deco­rum. The set­ting encour­ages a pecu­liar mix of con­for­mi­ty and competition—where con­ver­sa­tion is shal­low, and per­son­al space is large­ly nonex­is­tent. Despite these lim­i­ta­tions, guests engage in a sub­tle per­for­mance of leisure, appear­ing con­tent with the bland rou­tines as a stand-in for gen­uine relax­ation. They accept the dis­com­fort as tra­di­tion, cling­ing to the notion that true sum­mer involves a cer­tain aus­ter­i­ty. This self-imposed sim­plic­i­ty, the author implies, is more about social appear­ance than per­son­al plea­sure.

What’s most strik­ing is the care­ful avoid­ance of com­mer­cial lan­guage with­in these spaces. Pro­pri­etors resist call­ing them­selves hote­liers, pre­fer­ring to be seen as gra­cious hosts, even as they col­lect fees and enforce rules. Guests, in turn, play along, refer­ring to the estab­lish­ment as a “sum­mer home” rather than a busi­ness, pre­serv­ing the illu­sion of gen­teel hos­pi­tal­i­ty. This social con­tract, though unspo­ken, ensures that every­one main­tains the pre­tense of fam­i­ly-style liv­ing, even among strangers. It’s an elab­o­rate rit­u­al where pay­ment is masked by polite­ness, and pri­va­cy is exchanged for prox­im­i­ty. The dynam­ic echoes a broad­er theme in Amer­i­can life: the desire to appear less trans­ac­tion­al, even when the rela­tion­ship is clear­ly com­mer­cial. This del­i­cate dance between famil­iar­i­ty and for­mal­i­ty sus­tains the myth of the sum­mer retreat, even as it erodes gen­uine com­fort.

With­in these hotels, the social struc­ture often mir­rors that of a small stage play, with guests adopt­ing roles that car­ry through the sea­son. There’s the self-appoint­ed “orga­niz­er,” who leads dai­ly walks or card games, the chron­ic com­plain­er who cri­tiques every dish, and the aloof new­com­er who grad­u­al­ly becomes part of the group. These roles are rarely chal­lenged, con­tribut­ing to the sta­t­ic nature of the social envi­ron­ment. Friend­ships form quick­ly but rarely deep­en; the set­ting favors tem­po­rary alliances over last­ing bonds. Guests often tol­er­ate, rather than enjoy, one another—caught in a cycle of polite smiles and habit­u­al exchanges. For many, the appeal lies in the act of being among oth­ers, not in tru­ly con­nect­ing. This per­for­mance of com­mu­ni­ty is just con­vinc­ing enough to mask the lone­li­ness it fails to cure.

Chap­ter 14 – The Small Sum­mer Hotel sub­tly cri­tiques this phe­nom­e­non as a cul­tur­al con­tra­dic­tion. In a soci­ety that claims to val­ue inde­pen­dence and per­son­al achieve­ment, sum­mer becomes a time for uni­for­mi­ty and silent com­pro­mise. The Amer­i­can ten­den­cy to roman­ti­cize rus­tic dis­com­fort seems less about return­ing to nature and more about embrac­ing con­trolled nos­tal­gia. These sum­mer hotels sym­bol­ize a kind of sea­son­al regression—a retreat not only from the city but from indi­vid­u­al­i­ty itself. The com­mu­nal set­ting encour­ages a sus­pen­sion of per­son­al­i­ty, where dis­tinct tastes and pref­er­ences are blurred for the sake of har­mo­ny. But this har­mo­ny, the author sug­gests, is often hol­low, rest­ing on super­fi­cial niceties rather than gen­uine warmth.

In mod­ern terms, this tra­di­tion reflects a con­tin­u­ing fas­ci­na­tion with curat­ed sim­plic­i­ty, now echoed in today’s min­i­mal­ist vaca­tion rentals and glamp­ing trends. While the set­tings have evolved, the impulse remains the same: to find mean­ing in shared space, even if that space requires com­pro­mise. Stud­ies on group behav­ior sug­gest that peo­ple often feel more relaxed in con­trolled group envi­ron­ments, even when com­fort is sac­ri­ficed. This psy­cho­log­i­cal need for struc­tured inter­ac­tion helps explain why such mod­est places remain pop­u­lar despite bet­ter alter­na­tives. Still, the chap­ter invites read­ers to ques­tion the trade-offs—whether sur­ren­der­ing com­fort and soli­tude is tru­ly worth the col­lec­tive cha­rade.