Vacation At Your Own Risk

German roadway engineering and Ocean City, NJ were formerly disparate entities and comfortingly incongruous. However- take a deep breath- this is no longer so. A recent, impetuous weekday excursion to my childhood vacation destination induced a depressive stupor the precise moment we traversed the structurally dubious but comfortingly antiquated 9th street bridge.

Forebodingly, the temperature dropped twenty degrees upon paying the Garden State Parkway toll - whose inflated rates could finance streets of gold. Furthermore, the glaring absence of the famed, ill-fated Sommers Point circle should have signaled concern; proceeding safely through a recently installed traffic light seemed so thrill-less…so responsible. Where were the vaguely directive and rarely obeyed “Yield” signs. Sigh.

Then, the bay bore a magnificent congregation of cranes. Not of the avarian variety. This should have been sufficient crescendo, prelude to the construction progress. Perhaps I was latent in my realizations, having missed the reliable adrenaline rush, rendered after surviving Sommer’s Point circle. For suddenly, stretched out before us lay the marriage of German roadway engineering and my beloved Ocean City: At present, the famed wobbly bridge to a prohibitionist’s paradise is eclipsed by an Audubon-like thorofare that launches four lanes of highway into the once provincial downtown of Ocean City.

You would not believe it unless you see it. So, I insisted that we photograph the monstrosity. Truly, I loathe being the bearer of bad tidings. Apprising my (vast :) blogging audience of Ocean City’s cosmopolitan demise affords as much pleasure as revealing that the mall Santa has a cocaine addiction and likes to cage-fight.

If ever there were other-worldly, provincially charming vacation respites that could redeem the state of New Jersey from unsightly irrelevance, it was Ocean City. World War II vets with a love for God and Country (and sobriety) established familial ritual and revelry along the once syringe-free shores of this diminutive isle. Succeeding generations have returned for the kite-flying capers, clapboard cottages, currying by surrey, and caramel popcorn comforts, confident in their safety from Jack Daniels and his Atlantic City creepers. Skee-ball tournaments, baby parades, divine donuts and general WASP pageantry insulated this quaint Utopia. No longer.

The boardwalk boasted of Jersey Shore cast-mates and shady biker types. Absent were the silver-haired retirees that “winter” at their 14th & Asbury residence and bicycle slowly down the boards with their first and final spouse. Absent were the quaint shops now replaced by Verizon Wireless boutiques- which possess as much charm as your local Wal-Mart.

I don’t even know you anymore. These were the melodramatic musings I whispered into the frigid ocean wind. What of my children? Since they are the purported purpose of my blogging- I should relay that they were freezing to death, but chose not to allow the 45 degree blustery weather to dampen their spirits, leaving Jason and I to wallow in our nostalgic, nose-runny misery.

Fortunately, my frugality was appeased by the Mack n Manco’s Winter Special. Truly, I could almost forgive the Audubon entrance at 9th street when devouring a slice of that Sicilian goodness. Regrettably, Kincaid’s refusal to even touch his slice calls to question his overall aptitude for a successful future with such a glaring lack in judgment. Conversely, Eowyn devoured two slices and requested Steel’s fudge  with the insight of one who will do great things. And despite the hurricane-like winds, Eowyn tri-cycled her way down the boardwalk and Kincaid was blown along –literally- behind her, while Jason and I gazed into the ocean, comforted that we would only see divine engineering there.