19. Go to Lindsay Lohan’s Beach Club
19. Go to Lindsay Lohan’s Beach Club
Traveler, beware.
If you’ve ever had the experience of starting to do something and immediately knowing it’s a bad idea but it’s too late to turn back, you will know how it felt to go to Lindsay Lohan’s Beach Club in Mykonos. It reminded me of a time I agreed to go with a friend to a pumpkin patch, not realizing she was bringing a whole bunch of other friends and their kids and it was a three hour drive. I jumped out of the car at a traffic light before we left downtown Manhattan and ran for it. This was not an option for me once I got into the car on the Greek island, because there seemed to be no stop lights for miles and it was way hotter than New York in October 2005.
I had landed on the shores of Mykonos with a large group on an expedition from our writer’s retreat, and the crowd scattered in different directions once the gang plank went down. We were all somewhat naturally paired with our roommates, and myself and my roommate Joanna had been chatting with two other roommates, Katy and Halley, who were both extremely excited to get to Lindsay’s beach club in a way that was a little baffling to me because I have never seen the show. They kept quoting her, I assume, and from what I gathered, Lindsay used to really love Mykonos and had a number of catchphrases about it.
We had already all spent several hours in the completely shadeless Delos, an island that serves mostly as a museum of Ancient Greek art and architecture. I’d enjoyed that time wandering alone under the blazing sun, pushing my way through flinty bushes, scrambling in and out of holes, all while wearing a sweat-soaked sundress. I finally found a grove of cypress trees to collapse into for ten minutes before we got on the boat the chic party island across the water. Coming up the pier, my body was swollen with heat. Like a mirage across the asphalt, Katy, Halley, and Joanna gestured to me as they got into the car that magically arrived to pick them up. The Beach Club was on the other side of the island, so to get there and back before the boat returned for us, we’d have to leave right now. There was no time to think. My brain was not involved; yet even as I consensually got into the car, my heart said no.
Now, I did not watch her show, but I will not pretend for a second that I know nothing about Lindsay Lohan. She is just a couple years younger than myself and exploded into popularity around the time when I should have been too old to be jealous, but was not. She was hideously tormented by the media and gossip mill, including the coverage of an incident of domestic violence that actually took place on a beach in Greece. And she iconically dated Samantha Ronson during a pretty homophobic era of time where very few actresses were publicly out—I still remember when she casually admitted they’d “been together for a while” in response to a seemingly innocuous question about their tumultuous relationship. Now, Lohan is married and has probably given birth to her first child. She was pregnant a few months ago and time is linear. She is living, I believe, in Dubai and she had a stand in kiss Chord Overstreet in her return to the screen in a 2022 Netflix holiday movie. I’d also like to share her viral Cameo in which she was paid to come out on behalf of a youth to the youth’s parents, and ended up offering a little life lesson instead.
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All of this to say, Lindsay Lohan is a complicated person and the wisdom she has was hard-earned. However, after being to her Beach House, I do not think she is keeping up with her responsibilities to the property.
The driver’s reaction to the destination name was my first indication that my rising sense of dread was justified. A flinch, an inner grimace, a hint of amusement, a silence. I’m not sure what it was, but if I were him, I would have warned us not to go. Except he was just making his buck off the summer tourists and I’m sure we were not the first group of sun struck women hoping to be star struck at Lindsay Lohan’s Beach House that season, or possibly even that day. The ride itself was interesting, climbing up the hills and then down them again to the water on the other side, passing row after row of white houses with blue trimming, which he explained to us was mandatory. He also tried to share a bit of information about upcoming elections in Greece. He tried. And he laughed when we pulled into the long parking lot to the beach house and I observed that several of the palm trees were dead which was “not a good sign.”
Another bad sign were two enormous cattle standing around the entrance, with massive horns, chewing on I don’t know what—the ground looked entirely dry and without nutrients. Who did they belong to? Where had they come from? Where would they go? I’ve passed random flocks of animals in the country, but they were not a flock. They were two cows, alone, in a place where lack of care oozed across the landscape.
We got out of the car and the driver sped off, leaving us to walk the twenty feet or so to the entrance. It only took that distance to understand the Beach House was closed, though a few very young people in uniforms darted furtively in and out of the place. The beach chairs were stacked, the bar lights out. When asked, they had no idea when they’d be open again, not just that day, but ever. If I’d put any thought or research into this adventure, I would have read this post from way back in 2019 that said the place was closed or a “pile of rocks.”
This is total conjecture on my part, but it really reminded me of other enterprises I’ve seen around New York where a very rich person with no business acumen is at the helm of some project and they’ve appointed all their friends to run it and everyone is so disastrously incompetent, but the gravy train is still running so they’re gonna ride it. Like, these kids from the island or Athens are just hanging out there, using the pool, having sex, and doing what drugs are available until the local authorities have the time to officially shut it down. And more power to them! But they were not willing to risk us disturbing this delicate mooching balance and chased off an attempt to at least take a photo together in front of the sign.
By now, I was so hungry, thirsty, and hot, murder was the next thing on my mind. Far down the sand, there stood another beach house of some kind, this one buzzing with people. We approached and the hostess received us in a way that suggested ravenous, dehydrated Lindsay Lohan fans make regular appearances there. While traveling is expensive, I had mostly found prices for food in Greece more than reasonable, but not at this place. Here was the club for people bored of what the private chef is cooking on their yacht. Bowls of lobster pasta for close to a hundred dollars, sandwiches in the forty euro category. Tolerantly, they allowed us to order several sides of fries and ice water. We sat in a row, looking out at the water, steam rising above us.
Looking around at the rich people, I thought about brands. Gucci, Birkin, Louis Vuitton, these are all red herrings. The real rich people fashion flies under the radar of notice unless you’re in on the secret language of stamped leather and wrist charms. I didn’t recognize a single bag or designer on anyone, but I knew they were all so, so wealthy and connected and communicating exactly how wealthy/connected they were to one another at a frequency I couldn’t hear. While Lindsay Lohan and her husband are undoubtedly rich, Lindsay at least was a different class of person, someone who had to make a loud spectacle of herself to build her beach house that was now falling into disrepair.
Or maybe not. Michael Lohan was a commodities broker after inheriting his dad’s pasta business (????) and her mom Dina had the time and money to be her “momager,” before they both glommed onto their daughter’s early success in lieu of productive work. She may have been able to buy property in Mykonos without ever pretending to be her own twin.
After the water and fries were drained, we got the hostess to find us a car back across the island. I got into the front by the driver and he asked for a name, mistakenly thinking we were staying at the hotel and charging the room. I didn’t process that, only thinking how my own name is such a hassle to spell and explain to strangers. So I said my name was Joanna, because there was someone named Joanna in the car and most people can spell that name. Then he asked for a last name. So I gave her last name…in the backseat, the others ladies started to giggle and that, plus the whole escapade, finally broke me and I started to laugh so hard I thought I was going to be sick. Later, they would tell me it sounded as though I was making up a name like a soviet spy seeing objects.
“My name? Uh… Car... Car Windshield.”
I felt bad if the driver thought we were mocking him, but it was just one of those moments that is so funny for no reason that you can’t control yourself. Eventually, he gave up and drove us back to the boat to get us the hell off of his island.
Looks like the baby is out and the postpartum underwear is on:
Someone wrote to me that they thought I was in Greece again. I am sorry to destroy any illusions, but I am writing about new things that I have done in the last year since my 39th birthday and not necessarily in chronological order. However, as crunch time approaches, I am desperately trying to fit in new things I didn’t get to. No matter how much you age, procrastination rules.
Though if anyone wants to fly me to Greece in the next four weeks, I’m willing. I’ll even check out the beach club again. Who knows, maybe it’s under new management.
"Here was the club for people bored of what the private chef is cooking on their yacht."
Ms. Windshield, this made me laugh out loud so much while I was at the bus stop. Love hearing the other side of this adventure, red herrings and all.