Beach Bucket List

          

 It started as a conversation with my friend, Lorraine.  She has never been to White House Subs!  How could Lorraine, who has lived at “the Shore” longer than I have, miss out on such a gastronomic icon? She got me thinking…

 

            I guess we all have our faves, our secret haunts.  Sure, AAA, AARP, GWCOC, and all the other tourist-driven organizations promote “must see” standards from Atlantic City to Cape May.  But there are so many out-of-the way treasures to delight locals and visitors alike.  Here is an even dozen of my favorites.  Feel free to add these to your beach bucket list.  And share your favorites!

          1.     White House Subs, 2301 Arctic Avenue, Atlantic City, NJ

If you love subs (aka hoagies) or if you just love nostalgia, you gotta stop at White House Subs.  The freshest rolls, the most decadent meats, the throw-back (opened1946) ambiance:  you can't beat it.  Don't just take my word for it, though.  Celebrities from Frank Sinatra to Mr. T, along with myriad Miss Americas, have eaten here.  Their photos adorn the walls, to prove it!

          2.    Oyster Creek Inn, 41 N. Oyster Creek Road, Leeds Point, NJ

This restaurant’s location may keep it a local secret: in the pine barrens, down a dark, wooded two-lane road.  But this is great seafood.  Think cracking crabs on sheets of brown paper. Live music. “Down Jersey” atmosphere.  Don’t let the remote locale and the stories of the Jersey Devil intimidate you. 

3.    Crabby’s Suds and Seafood, 1413 Route 50, Belcoville, NJ

Another seafood sensation off the beaten path.  Unless your beaten path is Route 50 en route to the Shore.  More great crabs.  More "Down Jersey" atmosphere.  Different all-you-can-eat specials every week night.  Go. Now.

4.    “Show Us Your Shoes” Parade, Atlantic City, NJ

So you know this post isn’t just about food, I’ve included this “can’t miss.”  This time, it’s a parade!  You may not have the time or inclination to attend the Miss America Pageant (though you really should, since it’s back in AC, which needs all the help it can get right now).  But you really do need to take in the “Show Us Your Shoes” Parade, along the Atlantic City Boardwalk the night before the pageant. Lovely young women ride in luxury cars and, when encouraged by the crowd, lift high their shoes, which are decorated to show off their state or their pageant platforms (ha!).  If you want a seat, you must by a ticket.  But part of the fun is standing along the Boardwalk as the sun goes down…and that’s free.

5.    First Night, Ocean City, NJ

I am delighted to say that I attended the first “First Night” in Ocean City and

have returned numerous times.  Ocean City offers a family-oriented, alcohol-free extravaganza on New Year’s Eve that just gets better every year. From big band soundsto the Ocean City Pops, from face-painting to fireworks, the party starts at dusk and goes past midnight.  Buttons are required, at a manageable fee.  Happy New Year!

6.    Airport Diner, 2602 Bay Avenue, Ocean City, NJ

Did you know Ocean City has an airport?  It’s right next to the golf course.  And the airport has a great little diner.  If you want a classic diner breakfast or a hearty diner lunch (comfort food recommended), the Airport Diner is the place. And you might even see a plane or two land while you dine.

7.    Mildred’s Restaurant,  Ocean Drive and Prescott Road, Strathmere, NJ

Okay, so a lot of this is about food.  Well, that’s what you do on vacation – go out to eat, right?  When you’re going, be sure you get to Mildred’s in Strathmere.  Of course, you have to know where Strathmere is:  just go to Sea Isle and head north on Ocean Drive, or go to Ocean City and head south and over the Ocean Drive bridge.  Mildred’s is on the beach, across from the trailer park, and offers great homemade pasta and real South Jersey Shore atmosphere. 

           8.    Leaming's Run Gardens, 1845 N. Route 9, Cape May Court House, NJ

On Route 9, north of the zoo, before you get to Dennis Township:  Leaming's Run Gardens is an oasis of serenity in the hectic summer season. Themed gardens, rainbows of color, a small colonial farm, alcoves and benches for sitting and thinking…or just sitting.  Locals lunch here.

(But you can also visit the gardens' evil twin, “Screaming Run,” for a haunted walk, October 25 or 26 at 7PM.  Tickets required).

 

9.    Doo Wop Back to the Fifties Tour, Wildwood, NJ

Yeah, I’m partial to this one.  As a former tour guide, I insist you take this tour.  The Wildwoods have the highest concentration of Mid-Century Architecture in the USA.  If tourists from France, Germany, England and Australia can write home about it, you ought to, too.  You'll see the Wildwoods in a whole new light:  neon.

10.  NJ State Firefighters’ Convention Parade

As the locals know, every September the New Jersey Firefighters hold their convention in Wildwood.  And every Saturday of that convention, they hold a REALLY BIG parade. With a WHOLE LOT of fire engines.  And LOTS OF SIRENS.  And FLASHING LIGHTS.  Go.  Once. Just to say you did it.  And bring the kids.  Or anyone who loves fire engines.

 

11.  West Cape May Community Christmas Parade

Speaking of fire engines…another parade to see at least once is the West Cape May Community Christmas Parade.  Your best bet is to know someone who lives along the parade route (think warmth, beverages, potty breaks), because this can often be a long parade.  Lots of local talent, marching bands, and fire engines. Did I mention, LOTS of fire engines?

          12.  Counter Dining at The Lobster House

I think we all know The Lobster House.  Have waited in line.  Have dined on the deck or sipped drinks on the ship.  But the counter!  Elbow-to-elbow dining with the locals, chatty waitresses, busy busboys, and the same great food.  Year-round, too.

 

Okay, that’s my short list.  I could have added the West Cape May Lima Bean Festival (lima bean ice cream, anyone?), Sunset Beach Grille, Lucy the Elephant in Margate.  So many faves, so little space.

What’s on your beach bucket list?

Travel Dreams: What's on Your Top 10 List?

Looks like more fun than a week at the office, doesn't it?

Chris Brady

I am a week away from a winter vacation as I post this and I feel like a child waiting for Santa.  I’ve memorized the itinerary for our expedition (not a cruise) to Panama and Costa Rica -- and I’m imagining the flora and fauna we'll see in the rain forests and ocean, the engineering wonder of the canal, starry nights at sea, interesting people, and best of all 10 days of discovery.

We booked this trip a year ago – a record in terms of advance planning.  It was an act of faith in some ways.  My husband is 82 and in stable but not terrific health. He was totally game, but I wondered if he would have the stamina to enjoy excursions like rain forest walks (probably) and horseback riding and snorkeling (unlikely). The brochure promised all levels of activity, so he we are, almost packed and excited to go.

We have experienced great and not so great travel, but nothing so bad that I would ever decide to stay put at home. As I consider retirement, I hope that my nest egg will fund at least one good trip a year. I figure I have at least another 20 trips before the physical limitations force me to sit on the beach. So I may not leave a big estate for my descendants, but what a collection of refrigerator magnets!

Where to go next year?  Here are 10 places I think about:

Galapagos
Patagonia
Barcelona
Tuscany
Paris
Rhine River Cruise
Thailand
Australia and New Zealand
Scotland
South Africa

Do you have a holiday planned for 2014?  Share your favorite travel spots.

Dread: What is it Good For? (Absolutely Nothing)

Me at Pipeline. Note the windblown hair.

Julie Owsik Ackerman

I often think that I know how something will turn out – and that it will be awful. Several times this summer, as I snorkeled through the reefs off Maui, or watched the sunset in Waikiki, or tucked into a fresh pineapple, I caught myself dreading the trip home. Luckily, I had enough awareness of my dread problem to tell myself that maybe it would be okay, and refocus on the moment. This example stands out for me because of how amazing our flight home turned out to be.

The last day of our trip, we toured the North Shore of Oahu. Like good surf pilgrims, we visited Waimea Bay, picked up shells at Sunset, stood at Pipeline. A rare tropical storm was set to hit Hawaii that day. Though this increased my worry and dread, I realized there was nothing I could do to control the weather, and for the most part, enjoyed our day.

Our trip home began at 6 PM, when we checked in for our flight from Honolulu to Maui. From Maui we would fly six hours to Phoenix, and from there five more hours to Philadelphia. Having left our hotel at noon, then driven around Oahu all day, I knew how long, uncomfortable and tiring the trip would be, possibly undoing all the benefit of 10 days of bliss. But improbably, our first flight took off almost on time, and though we had a bumpy ten minutes flying through the storm, we landed safely on Maui.

Though Oahu showed little sign of the storm, the Maui airport was in chaos. Almost all departing flights had been cancelled. The staff looked like they’d been working for three days straight, and passengers had the defeated look of those who know they’re not getting home that day. Here's where the nightmare begins, I thought. But I was wrong.

Because our plane had been on the island before the storm hit, our flight was one of the only flights leaving that night. The flight was overbooked, so they asked for volunteers to stay one more night, in a resort on Maui, who would each receive a $650 voucher for their trouble. We immediately volunteered, adjusting to the idea of more more day in Hawaii rather easily. The flight boarded, the airport emptied out. The poor exhausted staff filled out the paperwork for our vouchers and were about to put us in a cab when a distraught stewardess walked through the gate and reported that the plane had an open seat. Apparently this was bad.

A heated discussion ensued among the staff. The woman filling out our paperwork looked at us and said, “Do you want to take these vouchers and get on this flight?” Carl had the decency to ask about the passenger who would be taken off the flight to make room for us. “He works for the airline, sir. I need this flight to be full,” she said. I snatched the vouchers from her hand, and headed toward the plane, unable to believe we had received $1300 in vouchers, and still boarded our original flight. The cherry on top of this travel sundae was that I miraculously slept soundly on both flights, waking up in Philadelphia feeling rested and refreshed. I had to look at the vouchers to make sure I hadn’t dreamed them up.

Now, when I find myself dreading some future outcome, I remind myself of these flights, which turned out better than anything I could have imagined. Maybe like our trip home from Maui, what I’m dreading will actually turn out to be not only endurable, but wonderful.

Lafayette, Why Am I Here?

Summertime is often time for memorable vacations.  The following may not have been one of  my best vacations…but it was memorable, nonetheless.

I should have known, when the airport limousine we were promised turned out to be a pick-up truck, that this trip to visit my boyfriend’s family in France would be no vacation.  But the “limo” driver was jovial enough, assured us that the real limo was just in need of emergency repairs, and that we’d return from our trip in the style to which we were accustomed.  So we tossed our luggage into the back of the truck, scrunched in beside the driver, and began what was to be a vacation I would never forget.

Right up front, I must say that my relationship with my companion was less Jack and Jackie and more Ricky and Lucy, which often relegated me to second string.  And I must admit, as I operated my own business as my “day job,” that I often acquiesced to this position.  So, when I noticed that the representative at the airport check-in counter may have taken the tickets for our connecting flight to Montpelier as well as for our flight to Paris, I gently nudged my companion and whispered, “Honey…”

Glare.

I tried again. “But, honey…”

Glare.

So I took the hint and fished through my carry-on for a magazine.

When we got to Orly and went to check in for our flight to Montpelier, it was no surprise to me, then, that we had no tickets.  Luckily, we did have the receipts.  My companion’s irate call to American Express managed to get us on the flight.  We arrived, safe and sound, to the warm greetings of his daughter and three grandchildren.

I wish I could say the same for our luggage.  Apparently, our bags were detained in Paris, the result of a baggage-handlers’ strike.  This we discovered through my darling’s daughter, the only one of us who spoke French, interpreting for an excruciatingly gracious and very apologetic customer service representative.  Hats off, too, to this same daughter, who commandeered her apoplectic father to the car rental counter without international incident.

So there we were in Montpelier, France, on a late Saturday afternoon, with nothing more than the toiletries in our carry-ons.  Again, kudos to the capable daughter who, with an incendiary father, three restless children, and a veritable stranger, created a mini convoy with her minivan and our rented sedan.  She led us to a French version of our big box discount store and the only store open, as the French have a quaint custom of closing shops for the weekend.

Of course, this presented itself as yet another affront to Papa.  Having learned from our ticket incident not to get into his path, I turned him over to his daughter.  As I scavenged the aisles, I could hear said daughter’s petulant pleading:  “Dad, don’t you think you should try those on?”

The French sizes were a little confusing. I was dismayed to learn that my pants size was a 42, but somewhat amused that my less-than-buxom figure required a Size-99 bra!  With my companion assuaged by the knowledge that, if our luggage did not arrive in 24 hours, our purchases were compliments of American Express, we bundled up our packages and drove off to the hotel.

What a lovely place:  a converted manor with sloping gardens, a delightful pond, and a glass-walled dining room in a town called Cassoulet!  Our room was cozy, our bathroom quaint, and our accommodations required formal attire to dine.  No problem:  I had bought a dress and my companion, some slacks and a blazer.  One glitch:  only I had tried on mine.

So, when my companion emerged from the bathroom in the hastily-selected white slacks he had not tried on, I could only comment, with barely-restrained amusement, “Honey, you can’t wear those to dinner. You look like Elvis.”

Glare. Glare. Glare. Glare.

But dine we did.  To my relief, no one requested a rendition of “Viva, Las Vegas.”

And then there was the trip to Lourdes, which, I was supposed to be pleased to know, was “for Mary.”  While I am a practicing Catholic (and I was practicing very hard on this trip), the trip to Lourdes was news to me.

Now, my vision of a pilgrimage never included a minivan, three grumpy children, and a pre-dawn expedition along hairpin turns.  Nor did it include, just as we arrived in the venerable city, an explosive “I’m s-i-i-c-c-k…I mean it!” from the ten-year-old seated directly behind me.  Thank goodness for my quick reflexes, a gas station with  an automatic car wash, and my companion’s resourceful daughter (again).  To this day, however, whenever I hear the name “Lourdes,” I recall the distinct odor of Pine Sol.

So forgive me if I don’t tell you that, by the time we got to Lourdes, all the restaurants were no longer serving lunch, so we could only order pommes frites, salad, and wine.  Very much wine.  Or that the children, adorable heathens that they were, nearly bathed in the miraculous waters ( I still expect to hear that they have all entered the religious life).  Or that I only spent fifteen minutes at the actual shrine.  Nor will I go into detail about how all of that wine consumption at lunch somehow convinced my companions (I, sadly, did not drink, although, in hindsight, I should have) to cross the Pyrenees into Spain.  Along even more hairpin turns.  With fog. And RVs. And cows.

Forget about the gorgeous, brand-new hotel in Montpelier which had just opened the day we checked in and was so new, in fact, that my companion was inspired to instruct the management on how to operate the water heaters.  I won’t even mention the glare of all glares which graced me when I exclaimed that a seaside resort, La Grande Motte, was ‘the Wildwood of France” (which I still believe is a compliment).

I can only say that, when our airport “limo” failed to morph back into its true identity for our return trip from the airport, I knew this “vacation” and the relationship were beyond redemption.

(Not every weekend is a) Westhampton Wedding

Me and Denise in my happy place

Two weeks ago I had one of the best weekends of my life. Why so great? First of all, I was in Westhampton, which is my new happy place. When life is too real, I imagine myself back at Swordfish, the quaint old-fashioned beach club, in my turquoise dress, Veuve Clicquot in hand, surrounded by many of my favorite people on the planet. Or at Saltwater, a casual eatery with an ocean view, feeling the sea breeze, eating a portabello burger. Or at Steve and Michael’s house, lounging poolside, watching doggie Edie float on her raft like a princess. Or at the beach itself, in the dusk, chilly, sandy, but unwilling to leave the laughter, joy and beauty.

The town is charming, the people friendly, and I got to just be Julie for a weekend--not mommy, not wife, just me. I traveled with friends, ate every meal with loved ones, shared a room with high school chums, laughed so hard that my abs hurt. I slept late both days, wandered in and out of shops, lounged on the beach, and capped it off by celebrating the marriage of two men I adore. Weekends don’t get much better than that.

Adjusting back to reality was a little rough. Some car trouble, job stress, missed concert--nothing disastrous, just life. Part of me wants every weekend to be a wedding in Westhampton with my best friends. But as golden as it was, equally precious to me are mellow family weekends, watching movies on TV, playing with Daniel on the beach, and eating pizza in downtown Ocean City. My friend Steve reminds me to celebrate my life. Glamorous in Westhampton, or downhome in Narberth, I have so much to celebrate. Champagne optional.

Small World Holds True Again

Shopping in Brugge, Belgium.

The Help genie that Carol and Julie have written about recently found me in Brussels this week.  I was waiting for a bus to take me to the central train station when a woman appeared in my bus shelter with her roller bag, walked up to me and made a funny remark about the risqué poster advertisement that covered the wall.  It featured five blonde, bikinied babes holding a giant hamburger like a surfboard over their heads. 

“Guess they’re not trying to sell to you and me,” she snickered.  “What are they thinking?”  The place was called “Miami Beach.”  "It's probably like Hooters," I said.  Nice to import the best of American food culture to the rich epicurean tastes of Brussels, I thought to myself.

I could tell from her accent and colloquialisms that she was an American.  I learned that she is an ex-pat who has lived in Europe for the past 20 years.  She admitted to recently turning 50, but she looked about 35, with that beautiful bi-racial skin that seems to defy wrinkles.  We chatted about touring Europe.  She was glad that I had left my hotel to travel alone.  

The bus arrived and she boarded ahead of me and found a seat.  I presented my 20 Euro bill to the driver only to be denied because the denomination was too large.  (Before heading out, I had asked the hotel clerk if I needed exact change.  Guess I didn’t ask the right question.)

So I stood there wondering what to do: get off the bus to get smaller change and wait for the next one, or give up the trip completely.  Then I heard the American call out to me:  “I have the fare for you.”  She gave me 3 Euros for the 2.50 fare; she refused any thought of me repaying her.   

We continued to chat on the 25-minute ride to the station.  I told her I was from Philly.  I learned that her name is Ariella, she is a PhD, a graduate of Bryn Mawr College.  She has worked for the UN and other NGOs. She is an African American and Jewish.  I told her the 10-minute version of my life; of Max and Bernie at home, why I was in Brussels (delivering training). She spoke wisely about being a woman in an American corporation.  We arrived at the station way too fast.  

She was so interesting that I wanted to follow her to Germany instead of continuing my trip to Brugge.   When we entered the station we both looked up at the board and say our trains were leaving soon.  She shook my hand, wished me happy travels, and rushed off to her platform. 

I had a nice week in Brussels, in the classes, at meals with my European colleagues, and on my own seeing a little more of Belgium.  But the memory of Ariella will stay with me for a long time.  I hope that I can return the favor someday to a tourist or anyone who is in need. 

Have you ever met someone serendipitously that you will never forget?  Share your story.

Still Learning after All These Years

Recently, I presented at a conference in California and Jim came along to make it a mini-vacation and celebrate our 29th wedding anniversary.

We meandered up the coast visiting beaches between San Diego and LA. Like me, you’ve probably heard how different the west coast is from the east. It’s one thing to hear about it – and a totally different experience to stand with mountains at your back while you look down, down, down at the sea from a cliff.

I saw and learned a lot of new things on this trip, but here’s the thing that really blew me away. In spite of being married for 29 years and thinking we knew everything about each other, for the first time, I learned Jim doesn’t like heights. Wait, maybe that doesn’t quite capture it. What I mean is, Jim, who hates vegetables except peas and corn, is a huge baseball fan and isn’t crazy about Glee, would eat a bushel of beets and skip the World Series to watch a Glee Marathon rather than look down from an elevation higher than say twenty or thirty feet.

Considering the Pacific Coast Highway boasts elevation gains of over 35,000 feet - it was perhaps not the best place to be.

Who knew?

This is a man who back in the day, could sit on the balcony of his 17th floor bachelor pad overlooking the Ben Franklin Parkway in Philly and not throw up – who as a facility manager at Temple walked on roofs.

Should I have known ocean bluffs would do him in?

The only thing that saves me from feeling like an unobservant self-absorbed wife for not knowing is that it was a surprise to him too! Yet another reason to be grateful we live in (flat) Cape May.

Q 4 U – Are you still learning things that surprise you in your relationships?

Trip to Brussels Sprouts Work Life Envy, Book Idea

An homage to Obama in a Brussels waffle shop.

I worked in Brussels, Belgium last week, delivering a class to 30 European co-workers, who traveled from Ireland, Spain, France, Germany, Italy and the UK to improve their financial acumen (translation: learn how to make more money for our company). Lucky for me that our common language is English; I get to travel the world performing this important “work”. (Next stop: Malaysia) 

Working in a global company gives you insight into how differently Europeans view work.  The saying “Europe closes in August” is mostly true.  We see it in our sales figures (customers are gone too).  Almost everyone takes a two-week holiday (sometimes longer as many employees have a legally mandated minimum of 25 days off plus bank holidays annually).  And they really do take off -- no emails, phone calls, project work.