I survived my first trip to the Jersey Shore! This was NOT my so-long vignette to evidence my death by intentional drowning:
Instead it is a triumphant symbol of triumph over adversity. Not only did I walk from Penn Station to the Port Authority with carry-on luggage, an extended ACE bandage wrapped over my skinny jeans (which was wayyy too hot for 85 degree public transportation weather, however did give cred to my Delta wheelchair request), and a cane, but I also walked into the Atlantic Ocean. I was hoping the cool healing powers of the Atlantic would cure my ACL, but no dice. I did, however find some sea shells. We’ll call it a draw.
I also discovered this strange gigantic elephant structure right on the beach and in front of some condos. I find the positioning of the entrance to this attraction and the structural features I can only describe as “butt windows” quite alarming. It was unfortunately closed for the off-season.
Saturday night we did Atlantic City like woah. Apparently the theme of the bachelorette party was Rock n’ Roll. I don’t think I really comprehended that prior to my attendance, but luckily I just sort of assumed the theme would be slutty + tacky Atlantic City + wigs. There was a lot of leather. There was even more synthetic hair. I just briefly scrolled through my photos of the night. This is the only one I can share. It features a temporary tattoo designed by the maid of honor.
Sunday morning was rough. I limped over to some shuttle bus to ride over to Caesar’s Palace over on the main strip where I would then catch a MegaBus full of sadsacks to Port Authority where I would hobble over to the LaGuardia shuttle pick-up to catch a bus to LaGuardia where I would catch a plane to Atlanta where I would meet my wheelchair escort to take me to a bench outside, where my paramour would pick me up and tell me I smell like booze.
The first leg of this journey was by far the worst. The little casino shuttle bus had nonexistent shock absorbers and was intent on accelerating into every speedbump, of which there were eleventy. At one desolate red light in between highways and marshes that separate our resort from the main casino strip, I seriously considered jumping out of the bus to puke on the small patch of grass in the median.
Willpower persevered, and I made it to Caesar’s Palace, where I promptly entered into the bowels of the world, found a ladies room and threw up. I like to think that I was just bringing things back old school and using a vomitorium the way the Romans might have.
After I threw up in Caesar’s Palace, I felt much better and the day of travels went by pleasantly enough.