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.