Fundamental to the project of guesting in North Carolina is the notion that the space — any space, whatever space — does not belong only to you. Even if paid for, even if invited, no matter the contract, it is just that: an agreement between you and another party that you will inhabit a given parcel of real estate for a given time.

Whether a beachfront barstool or a river cabin with a hot tub, the contract remains the same. You should be kind. You must not be boorish or even difficult. You must consider others, whether fellow patrons or your parents/cousins/children. You must take up space in a way, finally, that makes the other party to the contract wish to engage in this exchange again. Don’t make your waiter want to quit, is what I’m saying.

Points of order: Do not, no matter your age, talk on your phone in a bar or coffee shop. If you spill your sweet tea in a restaurant, help clean it up. If you sneak downstairs at midnight, do not eat the last piece of Atlantic Beach pie. If you’re up first, make coffee. If the coffee’s out, make more. If the latch on the window is wonky, break gently into the owner’s drawer/cabinet/closet, find the necessary tools, and fix it.

Be gentle at brewpubs. Sample one or two beers, but if you’re still uncertain, order a flight. Sweep the sand off the porch, the leaves off the deck. Make sure the lid on the trash can is as bear-proof as possible. Don’t park on the grass. Foul balls, whether in Hickory or Kinston, go to the closest kid. Little kids get to cut in line at the fair (state or county) and at the high dive. Kids get leeway. A crying baby on a plane or train is not your problem. Trash on the trail is: Pick it up, even if it’s not yours.

Be the person you’d like your guests to be. Be the best guest you ever had.

Of important, if specific, note: You may only scream your lungs out for nine innings in support of a favorite player on the local minor league team — say, the 1998 Greensboro Bats — if you and your fellow screamers are currently in grad school and making poetry-based jokes about the metrical feet of the player’s name. That sort of thing wears thin beyond your 20s. It wears thin even in your 20s, but the other patrons will, if the weather is right, show patience, at least at first.

Ask your server if it really is OK to come in this late/stay this close to closing. Don’t send food back unless the trouble is severe. Don’t blame any one person for slow service, and know that no one in the restaurant was hoping for that. Tip anyway. Tip always. Tip obscenely. Order the special.

It is OK to have a favorite seat by the window. It is unguestlike to jostle someone else in the pursuit of that seat. We North Carolinians are mostly not jostlers, except in matters of conference tournaments and beach chair setup. In a related matter, you may never, ever play music on the beach. If you have been that person, we forgive you — but quit it.

If you need more linens, go, if you are able, to the front desk to get them yourself. Leave cash for housekeeping. Check out on time, unless the crying baby is yours, in which case do your best. Shop your local indie everything. Donate at festivals. Buy merch. Patronize food trucks.

Bring cake. Bring a good salad. Bring a book you loved. Bring only a well-behaved dog. Help pick the turkey after dinner. Stand out there by the grill, even in the rain. Help hang the lights. Wash your linens. Help at the sink. Chop stuff. Offer to go to the houses of your friends with very small children: It is so often easier for them to stay home. Bring silly, impractical presents. That giant stuffed bunny at the grocery, the one that’s half-off now that Easter has passed? That. Bring that. It’s bigger than she is. She’ll love it.

Be the person you’d like your guests to be. Be the best guest you ever had. Hold these spaces in reverence so that they keep existing, keep becoming available to you. Remember that the project requires a kind of communal goodness, an impulse toward leaving spaces at least as well-appointed as we found them. Thank people: your Winston-Salem bartenders, your Nantahala rafting guides, your Efland friends who had you over for a proper meal. Pet all shop cats. Listen to every child. Sit, in the sunset, in a place that isn’t yours, and enjoy the view.