So I Slept in a… Synagogue
An hour train ride from Manhattan, I discovered a synagogue-turned-sanctuary that provided just the solitude I needed.
By Nayomi Reghay
Photographs by Hunter Herrick
For months, I’d had an idea rattling around in my head for a YA novel about a girl with mysterious powers. Summer was drawing to a close, and I knew I could put pen to paper if I just got out of my stuffy Brooklyn coworking space and spent some time by the ocean. Craving sunshine, salty sea air, and a quiet place to write I flicked open my Airbnb app. A few swipes of my thumb later, a cozy white-walled bedroom decorated with wicker furniture and colorful curtains caught my eye — I had stumbled upon Hannelore Herrick’s stately home in Long Beach.
Its location, a mere two blocks from Long Beach’s immaculate shore, seemed like the perfect fit. At less than an hour from the city via the Long Island Rail Road, and just a short walk from the train station, it was also unbelievably convenient for me, a native New Yorker whose greatest shame may be how much of my adult life I’ve spent avoiding getting a driver’s license. I booked three nights, buzzy with excitement for my impending escape from the city.
When I arrived on an overcast morning, with my bicycle and a weekend bag, the house’s grand entrance far exceeded what my host had captured in pictures. It was imposing, pristine, and a little bit magical, hinting at the rich history its walls contained.
Standing at the entrance, what I didn’t know yet, was that I’d booked a slice of Long Beach’s history. During my stay, I would learn that the house was built by Senator William H. Reynolds, in 1906, just two years after he built Dreamland, a $3.5 million amusement park at Coney Island. In 1907, its residents would have been just a few short blocks away when the Long Beach Hotel, then billed as the largest hotel in the world, burned to the ground, forcing 800 guests to evacuate. And in the mid-20th century the house became a synagogue to Long Beach’s Jewish population, serving as a place of worship and prayer for nearly 40 years.
Before I could knock, my host opened the door as if a sixth sense had alerted her to my presence. Hannelore greeted me in a soft German accent, assured me that my bike would be safe behind the house, then immediately returned to her task: programming my personalized code into the door’s digital lock. I stored my bike, and a few shorts beeps later, my host looked up from her handiwork, smiled, dusted her hands off and waved me in.
I walked behind her as I took in the impressive first floor — a stunning landscape of rooms that opened from one into the next. he asked with a “Do you like croissants?” Hannelore asked me, as if no other topic could be more essential to a happy beach visit. Towels, check, bike, check, croissants, check.
My eyes darted from the ornate fireplace facing the entrance to the richly polished woodwork in the adjoining dining room to the more distant alluring light beckoning from a sunroom on the opposite end of the house. The sunroom was decorated in wicker furniture with thick cushions in soft pastels; I could already imagine myself cozying up to a good book and a cup of tea, happily tired after an extended visit to the beach.
Recalling my host’s question, I nodded vigorously. “I absolutely love croissants.”
“Good,” she said, as if checking an item off an imaginary clipboard. It was a perfect preview of Hanne (pronounced “Hannah”), as I would affectionately come to call my host over the next couple of days: efficient and tidy, with a keen eye for the small pleasures that made a visit to her beautifully kept home all the more enjoyable.
Hanne led me up a brightly lit staircase where I admired a small stained-glass window of a sailboat. Upstairs, the white walls were decorated with stunning silk kimonos in white and gold with poppy-like red accents.
In the guest kitchen, on the second floor, Hanne encouraged me to enjoy a cup of coffee while she finished preparing my room. It was a gray morning, but the small, sparkling-clean room was filled with light. Thoughtful notes about where to find utensils and essentials like the wifi passcode were written on seashells that had been carefully placed in easy-to-spot locations. I marveled at the space. Like much of Hanne’s home, it was incredibly orderly yet comfortable and inviting.
Shortly after, Hanne announced that my room was ready, but I was so happy in the kitchen that I decided to stay and work on some writing while I finished my coffee. Then she returned. “Nayomi!” she called out, “we just made this with another guest. You must try it.” She handed me a fresh smoothie made of peaches, blueberries, a health powder a guest had shared, and a dash of ginger. It tasted incredible.
By the time I finally retreated to my cozy room I started to wonder if I’d ever want to leave the house to explore the beach. Which was a good thing, because the following day it poured.
Hanne’s home accommodates several guests at a time in private rooms on the second floor, but also has many large common areas. A massive terrace, a huge patio, a wrap-around porch, and almost the entire first floor are open to all of her guests.
In normal circumstances, I might have felt trapped by foul weather, but at Hanne’s I took comfort in knowing there were many rooms where I could relax, each with a unique personality. And so I spent the rainy day working in one room, and then moving onto the next, each time inhabiting a different world for a short time.
In the wood-paneled dining room that I would later learn had formerly housed the synagogue’s Torah, I enjoyed the rich moody hues of the dark wooden furniture. I felt inspired by the room’s quiet mystery as I sat in an intricately carved high-backed chair and worked on my novel at the large, sturdy antique table, acquired during Hanne’s time living in Japan. The jewel-toned runner sparkled in deep blue and purple, and my protagonist’s supernatural powers came to life. I imagined her at a school dance, seeing the moods of her peers as wafting, colorful clouds. Suddenly my story felt both more magical and more real. In the evening I sat in the sunroom with a cup of tea and felt transported to Montauk or the Hamptons by the wicker beach furniture. I read a chapter of Little Fires Everywhere while I listened to the rain.
But it was over a leisurely breakfast of croissants and jam that I truly fell in love with Long Beach, and along with it, Hanne’s home’s history. A book she’d left out for guests documented the early days of Long Beach in historical pictures. I lingered on a story about one of Oscar Wilde’s visits to Long Beach in the late 19th century, during which he spent a day at the beach with Alice Pike Barney and persuaded her to pursue a career in the arts despite her husband’s disapproval. That conversation changed Barney’s life. I bristled at the story of the fire that destroyed the original Long Beach Hotel, and discovered that Long Beach was a town that had weathered tragedies from fires to storms, only to be rebuilt again and again.
A fellow guest noticed me reading and asked whether I knew that the house had once been a synagogue. I was fascinated and when I bumped into Hanne later that evening, I asked her to tell me about the house’s history.
Hanne, a German-born world traveler, lived with her journalist husband in Japan and England among many other places before settling in Long Beach at what she now calls her “happy house.” She told me about the house’s history, from its construction at the turn of the 20th century to its decades as a synagogue until the early 21st century. When its aging rabbi retired to New Jersey circa 2007, the home was placed on the market and was slow to sell. Where other buyers saw a money pit, Hanne saw its unique potential. “It was the first time I made a decision against my husband’s wishes,” she told me.
“It just spoke to me … the woodwork, the creaking stairs. The details. What a charming house it could really be if you opened it up — I just saw it finished in my head. I knew immediately what I wanted to do.” In 2008, Hanne purchased the house and set to work renovating it, often picking up tools to help with the demolition and repairs herself.
When it was still a synagogue, the home had been divided into many rooms to create separate quarters for women and men, as well as a private housing area for the rabbi. Hanne removed many of the walls and doors connecting the rooms and floors. She opened the space, and once she did, she discovered her home was full of light — as airy and happy as she had pictured it.
Hearing about Hanne’s love affair with her house made me appreciate it even more. I found myself admiring its architecture all over again; I also myself inspired to apply her sense of vision to my own book. How might my story change if I opened it up and let in more light? I wondered. I wrote a few pages of notes, treated myself to a bath, and then fell into a deep, happy sleep.
The next morning, the sun came out. I enjoyed another of Hanne’s smoothies and then rode my bike up and down the pier, relishing the good weather and, along with it, my freedom. I biked to a local sandwich shop and sampled an enormous overstuffed veggie sandwich. I swam in the ocean, and when I returned to the house I enjoyed the outdoor shower that Hanne had stocked with shampoo, conditioner, soaps, and a basket of fresh towels.
After working on my novel, I ate dinner on the terrace before biking back to the pier to catch the sunset. The cloudless sky turned a startling violet as the sun sank beneath the horizon. When I returned, I came around the back to the sprawling terrace to put away my bike for the night and found Hanne with a friend. They offered me a glass of wine and we sat and chatted about Long Beach, their fondness for the town, and how it had risen again after the devastation of Hurricane Sandy in 2012.
On my next and final day, I told Hanne I was sorry it would be my last. She assured me I could leave my things in the house past checkout, and enjoy the beach for as long as I liked.
I sat on the sand with my notebook, happy that the characters who would inhabit my story were finally alive on the page. The salt air felt fresh in my lungs as I wrote and soaked in the last moments of summer. I bumped into the guest who’d told me about the house’s history as a synagogue, and we bonded over how much we’d enjoyed our stays. “It’s a really special place, isn’t it?” she said. “It absolutely is,” I agreed.
New Yorkers seeking beach getaways tend to opt for the opulence of the Hamptons or the hipster cool of the now-gentrified Rockaways. But I found my sweet spot in Long Beach, which falls between these extremes — neither ostentatious nor overly trendy. Leaving Hanne’s Airbnb, I felt I had discovered a delicious secret — one I hoped I would be returning to again and again.
About the author: Nayomi Reghay is a Brooklyn-based writer who covers women, wellness, technology, and travel. She writes about how social media impacts our relationships in her advice column, Swipe This! You can follow her on Twitter.
