"Let's run away to Atlantic City, let's feel the wind in our hair. "

In response to one of my lethargic posts a few weeks ago, Em borrowed some lyrics from Ragtime to suggest a trip "down the shore." It was kind of a joke, but I think she knew that even bringing up the Jersey shore would make me come speeding across PA for a visit.

This sounds bizarre, but I love the Jersey shore. It's all so tacky and 1950s: the boardwalks with their tourist shops, wax museums, and trattorias; the overpriced carnival rides; the retro motels dotting the beach; the murky, syringe-laden sea. Oh my God, it's fantastic.

Em and I have a long and rather hilarious history of driving down the shore. The best (and worst) of these stories happened three years ago, in the middle of a string of ill-fated visits that each ended with me vomitting pathetically in Em's bathroom--and not from a stomach flu. I vomitted on this particular visit because I had sun poisoning. Hailing from upstate NY (where the sun seems to never shine) and being half Sicilian, I became cavalier with sunscreen during a long day of wave-riding at Wildwood. After six hours in the sun (!) and a beer or two at a pub, I realized that I probably had skin cancer. Blisters formed on my cheeks and thighs, and I was so uncomfortable on the way home that I took my pants off. But then we got lost--I think we somehow wound up in Trenton--an almost ran out of gas, and the gas attendant totally saw me (and my sun blisters) nekkid. Oh the horror, the horror.

The next time we went to the shore, I covered myself in sunscreen; unfortunately, at one point while I was bodysurfing, sunscreen was the only thing that covered me: there was a swimsuit top malfunction, and a handful of prepubescent boys innocently dallying in the ocean that day may or may not have seen their first pair. Again, the horror.

So, you can see why I love the shore: vomitting and nakedness plague me when I'm there. It's heaven.

But, it's winter (in case you hadn't noticed), and Em had a cold, so we decided to stay away from the shore this time and head into Philly instead. I am equally enthusiastic about Philly. The row houses, the nasal accents, the good Irish bars: what's not to love? Em and I also have a history there, including long hikes across town, into historical sites, across bridges, and into various bars. My favorite of these excursions happened a few years ago, when Mike, Em, Mark, Amy, and I found this crap bar with a great jukebox in the Old City, drank pitchers of cheap beer, and became pleasantly tipsy while we sang along to Van Halen & co.

This time, we went to a vegetarian restaurant in Chinatown, church in Fairmont, a diner near the art museum (where we sat uncomfortably close to four Philly dudes who kept staring at us and talking about "pussies"--a tried and true pick-up line, I don't doubt), the art museum, macy's (for some retail therapy, of course), and finally to an Irish pub just beyond "gaybarhood"), where we had Irish coffees and talked (loudly? hypocritically, after judging the dudes for the same thing earlier?) about sex.

And throughout the day, I realized that I could live in Philly pretty happily. All I want is an urban rowhouse with ironwork, a balcony, and a roof garden. There were plenty of those in Fairmont, where there's also a really spooky abandoned state penitentiary that hosts haunted houses for Halloween. I wonder, does the penitentiary raise or lower property value in the neighborhood? Because I would LOVE to live across from such a place.

Tomorrow I'm heading home, but I don't want to. I want to stay here and pretend everything in my life is fine. (Except for the vomiting and inadvertent nakedness that would inevitably occur if I were to linger a few more days.) But since I have to go back, I'll keep humming:

Let's run away to Atlantic City, let's feel the wind in our hair.
Sharing the day in Atlantic City, sea and salty air.
Let's run away to Atlantic City, no one can find us there.