Trip 46 — Long Island Walk

Day 14: Center Moriches to Sayville
Wednesday, 19 November 2025

Today: 42489 steps/28.95 km/17.99 mi/5h 36m
Total: 643668 steps/495.95 km/308.17 mi/86h 50m

It's a misty morning as I leave the AirBnB, but it'll clear up shortly. Except for the last few minutes, the entirety of today is on the Montauk Highway.

The first nine kilometers are ideal. The sidewalk takes me safely through Center Moriches, Moriches, Mastic, and Shirley. I am not sure where the dividing line is between the two Moricheses, and similarly between Mastic and Shirley, which share a train station. But it is likely the sort of place where residents of one are offended when misrepresented as belonging to the other.

This is no longer the Hamptons, and no longer the South Fork. It's the meat of Long Island: a multicultural mix with bustling, unpretentious small-town centers; large shopping plazas dominated by King Kullen and Lidl supermarkets; and turnoffs to the highways that get people toward the city ("up-island," as they say) and farther east. There are numerous Mexican and Central American restaurants and grocery stores, the occasional Chinese takeout place, churches of various shapes and denominations, and schools, post offices, and fire stations.

Then, abruptly, the sidewalk ends at a wildlife refuge, and I'm back on the left, facing traffic. For three kilometers it's zooming vehicles. Fragments of sidewalk tempt me on the right, and twice I'm fooled, rushing across — in one case in front of a particularly belligerent truck driver, who honks urgently even though I have plenty of time — only to find the pavement end after three houses. Or one. Why pave a sidewalk in front of only one house?

There are four crosses by the road in quick succession, and there'll be another after lunch: the spots where someone was killed. The Paumanok Path blazes line the road again. Why isn't it safer?

There's a rustle in the leaves. A raccoon? No, it's a hedgehog. It regards me briefly and then wiggles into a hole in the ground.

The stores return after Yaphank, and I'm walking parallel to the Long Island Rail Road. The sidewalk comes back as well, tentatively and with breaks, and then reliably, but I'm constantly reminded that this road, this county, and this country are for cars. The businesses appear by the dozen: mufflers, brakes, tires, painting, washing, gas, inspections, interior, exterior, lease, sales. The Palomino repair shop sports 40 — forty! — American flags. Nothing is as American as car culture.

I'm particularly slow today, sometimes exceeding 12 minutes per kilometer. I don't know what's happening with my blister, but the right heel is also affected, and at times I'm walking on needles. I pressed on swiftly at the end of yesterday's segment, but the long distances and stress of Monday and yesterday are catching up to me.

At Peter's Luncheonette, I'm greeted by Peter himself in the form of a cardboard cutout holding a menu. I take a stool at the bar and have my creamiest meal in history. The seafood bisque is imitation crab, but what can I expect for $4? A daily special is chicken à la king. I have to look it up to remember what it is, and one site calls it "creamy and luxurious." It seems perfect for a diner, and aptly made with rice and white-bread toast and a little skin on the surface of the sauce.

But where this place really shines is in the Pepsi preparation. I've never had a refill so lovingly and precisely concocted. She performs it in stages, like a bartender pouring a Guinness: parking the glass under the tap, filling it most of the way, letting the fizz settle, shoveling in a little more ice, and topping it off. The recipe of ever so slightly more syrup than usual only enhances the experience.

When I booked the Come as You Are Inn a month ago, I wrote "Thank you!" in the reservation notes. Thinking the message had gotten cut off, they called to confirm, and they asked why someone with a New York City phone number was staying for one night on a random Wednesday in November.

"I'm walking the perimeter of Long Island."

"Is that a punishment?"

They asked for an update on my arrival time, so I tell them I'll be leaving Peter's shortly and arriving in a little under two hours.

"We were just in Patchogue! I would have offered you a ride, but it might have been met with an obscene gesture."

"That's reserved for trucks that veer into my lane. I would have declined, courteously."

It's a slow walk, but I get there. Mark and Ari have owned the Come as You Are Inn for three and a half years. There's no sign on the exterior denoting it as lodging, but the rainbow flag marks it as LGBTQ+-friendly. They've been repeatedly harassed by their next-door neighbors, who don't want two married men running a B&B nearby.

It's hard to imagine a more welcoming couple, who greeted me with a homemade cookie — Ari is an expert baker with a career in fine dining; Mark is a pianist, organist, and choir director. In the summer, their guests are often on the way to or from Fire Island via the nearby ferry.

"This area is definitely MAGA," Ari says. "It's so bad that Mark only plays in minor keys."

I'm the sole guest tonight. We chat in the lounge of the 1870s house; I'm on the leather couch. In season, the liquor flows and Mark conducts sing-alongs. The rooms are named after Ethel Merman, Mae West, and Tammy from the eponymous film. On the dresser, the mini-bottles of liquor are arranged in rows like chess pieces.

From the Mae West room upstairs, I can hear jazz playing in the lounge, comfortingly harmonious with the chiming of a clock and the occasional whistle of a train calling at the Sayville station, a block away. Dinner is sashimi at Koi, along with a Long Island iced tea (I had to have one at some point). On the way back, I see the train come in from one direction and then the other. With service that frequent, I must be getting close to home.

Go on to day 15