Is a swim without a snake or a frog really an authentic bungalow swim?

T

he bungalow is for the rich, you think, as you turn up the steep hill to your quaint, rundown cottage, home for the summer. You climb the musty wooden steps, turn the lock-less knob, shove the door in with your shoulder, and step inside. You breathe in the smell of mildew and freshly cut grass, and catch a faint whiff of chipmunks. You flick on the lights, one blinking rapidly like a nervous twitch, and survey the accommodations. Yup, definitely for the rich.

The younger children sleep in the kitchen while the older ones fight for a space on Babby’s couch next door, where there’s a higher chance of midnight popcorn or a toasted marshmallow fluff snack. The kitchen/bedroom boasts an oven from the 1960s that sits tall and proud and takes up half the one-bedroom accommodations. It hasn’t worked since the 1980s, but at this point, it’s a family heirloom. The countertop is mainly sink, but the water emerges in drips (depending on its mood, of course) and the drain doesn’t do much draining. Did you say for the rich?