Vacation hangover

I gave up hangovers a long time ago, but Monday morning felt like I remember them.

It is rare that Ben and I take vacations. Between the job, the farm, building a house, and all the other “little” things, there’s just no time to get away. But I am a lover of the beach, so we try to squeeze in a few days here and there when we can.

This past weekend we went to a 50th anniversary celebration in New Jersey, so we left two days early and had the most perfectly perfect beach days that ever were. Mid-70s, sunshine, just a little breeze, and most of the tourists had gone home—we could not have asked for anything better.

In case you didn’t know, Ben and I both grew up on the Jersey Shore, which is nothing like the TV show but really is called “the Shore,” not “the beach.” The tourists (who are mostly from New York and North Jersey) who flock to my one-square-mile hometown say they’re going “down the Shore” when they come visit, as 50,000 do every day between Memorial Day and Labor Day. My friends and I all grew up working in the restaurants and on the boardwalk. Spend all day on the beach and work a job with your friends at night? I'll take it, thank you very much.

Also in case you didn’t know, my hometown of Point Pleasant Beach was the target of Hurricane Sandy back in 2012. That was the one that washed an entire section of land into the Barnegat Bay, taking a bridge and houses with it.

Anyway, that’s where we were this past weekend, and since my brain is still in a salt-water fog and my cognitive function is on the low end of the spectrum, I thought I’d share a few highlights.

The drive from southern Virginia to New Jersey should take less than seven hours, but because there is eternal construction in both states and every one in between, it was closer to nine. Coming off the Delaware Memorial Bridge we were in yet another traffic jam on the New Jersey Turnpike where the road is five lanes wide and you are surrounded by 18-wheelers and a . . . tractor? I have so many questions about this.

The first thing we do when we arrive at the shore is go to Vesuvio’s Pizza. Vesuvio’s has been there since we were children, and it still has the best pizza known to mankind. It needs no toppings. When you pick up a slice, you fold it in the middle and the crust is so perfect the point does not sag, like this:

I apologize that I did not get a photo of the point, having already eaten that first delectable bite. This is a proper pizza. You should never have to hold a slice, no matter how big, with two hands. You enjoy Vesuvio’s pizza with an RC Cola, nothing else.

Then you proceed to Hoffman’s, the iconic Jersey Shore ice cream place. Every summer evening there are a hundred people or more in line for this homemade deliciousness. I have no photos because I was busy eating my scoop of pralines and cream on a waffle cone. Amen and amen.

Then you sleep the sleep of the dead and wake up early to hit the sand. This is not just a matter of enjoyment. Studies have proven that being near the ocean reduces anxiety, relieves stress, promotes better sleep, and boosts your immune system, plus you get a good dose of homemade vitamin D as long as you don't kill yourself with sunscreen.

Feet in the sand = grounding Sun on the skin = vitamin D

It probably cures cancer too. There's nothing a day at the beach isn't good for. So go.

Then at night you can sit on the patio at the Wharfside restaurant and watch the fishing boats come and go.

On our last day we took our chairs down to the beach and parked close to the water early in the morning, and here's where our different personalities become crystal clear.

I've said many times that Ben and I are opposites. And although we both grew up at the beach and claim to love it, Ben commented later that the surf is SO. LOUD. I looked at him like he was crazy and remarked that it is the most soothing sound I ever hear. When I sit on the beach, I close my eyes so my sense of sight doesn't interfere with what I'm listening to. With each roll and crash, I feel peace washing over my soul.

Ben feels like it's deafening. How have we lasted 38 years together?

Then, as we were walking back to our hotel to get ready for the anniversary party, I looked down and knew I had to take a picture for the kids' sake.

This man who presumably grew up on the beach, where tourists were laughed at for wearing socks with their sandals, had on Crocs and SmartWool socks. On the beach. When I whipped out my phone and snapped a picture, he accused me of "mocking an old man with poor circulation."

We are still married. Listen, I've said before that when you vow "for better or for worse," you really don't know what you're getting into. A lot can happen in 38 years, and you just have to play the hand you are dealt. I take no responsibility for this unfortunate footwear decision.

Sunday we headed home. Across 195, down the Turnpike, over the DelMemBr, and onto I-95 south. Through Delaware. Into Maryland and approaching Washington, DC.

The Capital Beltway is always a good time, but I figured it wouldn't be bad because it was Sunday so there wouldn't be any commuter traffic. But all those commuters decided to enjoy the lovely fall day by driving the 64 miles of the outer loop together. Some people just can't get enough. No worries, I thought. I only have to go halfway around and continue on 95.

Then a motorcycle went whizzing past me. Then another. More came by—literally hundreds—some on the shoulders, some between the lanes of cars (this is called lane-splitting, in case you wanted to know), doing wheelies and burnouts and driving excessively fast and generally terrorizing us old people with poor circulation. Later I read reports of some bikers actually going the wrong way, but I didn't actually see that.

About 40 miles down the road, we saw where a biker had pulled over on an exit ramp, I guess to rest in the shade from all his terrorizing, and when he parked his bike with its hot exhaust in the dry grass, it started a fire and by the time we got there the whole thing was going up in flames. It was very hard to feel sorry for him, so I didn't.

Meanwhile, I was running low on gas, which I NEVER do because I am not a risk-taker. I am one of those people who fill up at a quarter tank because you never know when a thousand crazed bikers will cause you to crawl along the Beltway and burn up what fuel reserves you have and if you know anything about the Capital Beltway, it is to not get off unless you know the area very well. That place is a merciless zoo. But I had asked Mr. Crocs-and-socks back in Maryland if he thought I had enough gas to get to Virginia, and he said, "Oh, yeah! No problem!" so there I was in the middle of a fuel emergency and you could cut the anxiety in my Toyota with a knife.

You'll be happy to know that we made it to exit 143 where there was a Wawa. Unfortunately, you had to be in the left lane to turn right to get in the left-turn-only lane that led to the Wawa. Since I didn't know all that, I had to drive an extra 12 miles (at least it felt like it) before I could U-turn and get in the parking lot.

Then we drove the remaining 3 hours home and it was all so emotionally exhausting and now you know why I have a vacation hangover.

I can't wait to do it again.