Sprung from Cages Out on Highway 9

Tramps like us, baby, we were born to walk.

Mac and I were determined to walk the beach today, come hell or high wind and, quite honestly, it was a little bit of both. No surprise, it was deserted, because no sane person would choose to walk when it's this cold and the breeze is gusting to 25 mph. Our goal was Morey's Pier, an amusement park 2.3 miles down the beach, for no other reason than I'd never seen an oceanside rollercoaster.

Along the way there, we came across dozens of conch shells and while they were no big deal to Mac, I'd never in my life seen so many fully intact conchs, making it impossible to leave them laying there, if for satisfaction's sake if nothing else. Final tally: 9.

I stuck a few in the front pocket of my pullover and carried a few more, all the while on the lookout for a plastic bag to aid the cause. She was skeptical I'd find one, yet somewhere past the tidal pools and before the dump trucks busy moving sand into bulwarks in anticipation of the Nor'easter due to arrive this Monday, there it was, imbedded in the sand and calling my name.

And while the bag definitely made it easier to wrangle them (I could remove the conch nestled in my armpit), that fierce wind whistled through the holes in the bag like a keening bird, not to mention that bag was some kind of heavy as we made our way across a beach of constantly blowing sand to the concrete boardwalk along motel row.

It was practically a ghost town, with street signs swinging and squeaking in the wind.

We took our wind-burnt faces to the Blue Pig Tavern as much for its roaring fireplace as for its appealing lunch menu. Part of Congress Hall, a classic Victorian hotel, the Blue Pig claims it's been providing hospitality since 1816, yet the couple seated at the table next to us by the fireplace vacated theirs in a matter of minutes while we reveled in its warmth every moment until we left.

The way I see it, you weather the Wildwood winds, you earn a table by the fireside for as long as you care to stay. I hated leaving just as a server was stoking the fire with three fat logs, causing an uprising of sparks and renewed energy in the flame.

But we couldn't linger because we'd bought tickets for a trolley tour of Cape May's Victorian architecture and didn't want it to pull away without us. As it was, we got lost a couple of times walking to the meeting place, eventually arriving last while all the other tour participants patiently awaited our arrival.

That's right, we were those tourists.

Our trolley tour guide was not only knowledgeable and enthusiastic, but scored points by beginning the tour with black history, explaining that during an especially awful storm that united bay and ocean, hundreds of houses were destroyed or badly damaged. It was doubly tragic because it occurred during the days of urban removal and since the area was predominantly black, most building remnants were demolished, sending 2/3 of the black population out of the area and 1/3 to West Cape May.

Fortunately, a few African American buildings were saved, a tiny Baptist church, the Franklin School and the summer home of a wealthy black Philadelphian. It was news to me that many of the 19th century houses here were built by well off people from Philly who'd come and spend "the season" - July and August - in Cape May.

Two months? What kind of a summer season is that? Now I understand why I was born south of the Mason Dixon line.

Our guide explained that these people called their enormous Victorian houses "cottages" and considered themselves "cottagers," both phrases borrowed from French royalty and their desire to have smaller rustic houses they could "escape" to.

Cottages these were not.

Another piece of unexpected intel was that back in the 1950s, almost all the cottages had been painted white (with green or black shutters). Cape May got national historic landmark designation in 1976, but the town put no restrictions on paint colors for houses, which goes a long way to explaining the kaleidoscope of colors and patterns on any one house. Even balusters changed from one level to the next.

Easily the oddest architectural detail was the knockout bathroom, essentially a loo on stilts attached to the side of a house. We saw a half dozen or so, each looking like a box with bird legs and no architectural roots to the house. We were learning so much.

Then there was the humor. "In the '70s, Cape May fell into disrepair and everyone started going to Wildwood," our guide explained with utter disdain. "Wildwood!" Since we're staying in Wildwood, Mac and I are well aware of the architectural differences between it and Cape May, but only a native could make it sound so low rent.

Gorgeous gingerbread-covered Victorian cottages aside, the highlight of learning about life in old Cape May was hearing about the Iron Pier, which had been designed with an opera house at the pier's end so that patrons could listen to the intoxicating sound of opera set to waves.

If that's not a romantic notion, I don't know what is.

But it wasn't all turrets and pink shutters, either, we learned. Turns out Cape May was second only to Daytona for auto racing on the beach, with 20,000 people lining the boardwalk to watch a race that included Henry Ford back in 1905.

After the trolley tour, we set out to see the Cape May lighthouse, but made a hard right when we saw a sign for Higbee Beach. Our tour guide had spoken about the beach because the three recent Nor'easters had caused railroad tracks to be uncovered right on the beach and at low tide, they were visible. It's been enough to inspire the locals to trek down there to see them for however long they last.

A guy in the parking lot (his car sporting one of the N.J. "Shore to please" license plates) told us it was a 20 minute walk and to follow the left path to see the tracks. Mac and I trudged along sandy trails through a maritime forest, unable to locate the tracks after 20+ minutes.

I was ready to give up and go back, but she insisted we take the beach trail ("We're not gonna walk this far and not find those tracks!") and, sure enough, there were the rusted railroad tracks coming out of the beach, as groups of intrepid visitors snapped photos. Once they began to clear out, I asked Mac if she'd take a snap of me. Almost immediately, she guessed where I wanted my picture taken.

"Too bad we don't have any rope," she laughed as I laid down across the tracks on a wooden trestle and she snapped away. Too bad is right.

Rather than return the way we'd come, we decided to brave the beach along the bay, watching the ferry head out in choppy waters. We know from experience the queasy ferry feeling those aboard were probably settling into right about then. Put your heads down and close your eyes, kids, it'll be over soon enough.

We finally made it to the lighthouse, only slightly worse for the wear after our second beach walk into the wind of the day. What's clocking ten miles battling the wind for walking veterans like us? What was notable was the more than a quarter cup of sand we found in each of our shoes once we got home.

Despite our tour guide's distaste for Cape May's redheaded stepchild, we stayed in the 'hood for dinner tonight, settling in at the Dogtooth Grill where, it seemed, half of Wildwood had landed:  families with soccer-playing children, a firefighter, a couple who never uttered a word to each other as they ate through steak, ribs and fried chicken.

Neither of us could resist the allure of Cape May Salts, the local oysters our blond server said were raised on the point (see: where we'd spent most of our afternoon). Enormous, although not quite as briny as Chincoteague's Old Saltes, they gave us a sample taste of a Jersey shore wave since it had been far too cold to experience the real thing.

But it was the combination of slurping my first local bivalve just at the moment when Springsteen's "Born to Run" came on the sound system - "The amusement park rises bold and stark" - that put the exclamation point at the end of our "shore to please" day.

Fireplaces, conch shells and roller coasters, oh, my. My sole regret? Not having any rope.

Although, come to think of it, that does make it easier to save myself.

Greetings from Wildwood

Just to be clear, we're not here looking for Guido types.

When Mac and I set out this morning for the Jersey shore - because doesn't everyone head north when the third Nor'easter in as many weeks is moving in? - it was for a getaway planned long before even the first storm.

Sure, we knew we were headed to a decidedly chilly and unpleasantly windy peninsula, with our AirBnB condo appropriately situated 3 blocks from the ocean and 2 blocks from the sound, the better to take the wind abuse from both sides. Like I said, we planned this excursion back when Spring was busting out all over.

Coming across the Chesapeake Bay bridge, Mac shared that she'd never been over it before, whereas I'd crossed it many, many times in my youth, though it was a mighty windy day to experience it for the first time, even with the magnificent views.

Once over it without mishap, we stopped for lunch at Harris' Crabhouse in the shadow of the Kent Narrows bridge, scoring a table overlooking the deck and the choppy water. Harris' was a classic bay seafood place (lots of wood, windows and young servers), the kind that have only gotten larger and a tad more polished since the long ago days I was through this way with any regularity.

The only sour note was the handwritten sign taped to the front door: "Sorry, we're out of crabs." Disappointing, yes, but a deal breaker? Hell, no.

Our server proved her youth immediately by writing her name and birthdate on the brown paper covering the table. "Danielle 3/13/97" was a good reminder that I have dresses older than she is.

The menu was solidly traditional and neither of us had any problem choosing a favorite. I liked the way the steamed shrimp platter was described ("a generous serving of 16-20 count shrimp," which clearly leaves the generous part to the discretion of the kitchen) and it allowed for my two requisite sides: hushpuppies and cole slaw, while Mac did an oyster po'boy.

Our food arrived so quickly and we were so famished that we were wiping our lips and heading for the car in about the same amount of time it takes to scarf fast food. I'm not proud of that, but traveling gives a girl an appetite.

Continuing on toward Delaware after lunch, I was struck by how much more developed the area out there is. What I remember fondly as 2-lane roads with an occasional vegetable stand is now four lane highways with subdivisions and big box stores.

Occasionally, we'd spot something rustic and my faith in humanity would be restored, something such as Marge's Garden Place or Po'Boy's Creole Café (motto: "Make gumbo, not war"), but mostly it was asphalt and soulless, the only redeeming factor the way the sky had opened up on three sides, making it clear we were headed toward water.

We made it to Cape Henlopen to catch the Lewes ferry in plenty of time to watch the uniformed staff check cars for drugs and explosives using dogs, under-car mirrors and trunk checks. These guys were doing their best to keep bad stuff out of New Jersey.

I could so many jokes there, but I won't.



Once on the ferry, we got out of the car to take in the water views as we chugged along, eventually abandoning the ice-cold breezes and heading upstairs to the warm lounge for a better perch. Within moments, an announcement was made about the café being closed in 5 minutes because of the roughness of the crossing.

Unlike Mac, I'm not prone to motion sickness, but it wasn't long before I was feeling plenty green as the boat pitched side to side, the horizon rising up and then disappearing in the windows next to the table where we sat. First I felt it in my head, then in my stomach and the only way I could think of to deal with it was by putting my head on my arms on the table and closing my eyes. I still felt the boat rocking wildly but without sight lines, at least my nausea was contained.

And it's not like I don't have ferry experience, Hell, a few years back, an old boyfriend and I took three ferries in one day and each crossing was smooth as silk. Today's gusts of 20+ miles per hour were a different story and proof positive that my sea legs aren't all they could be.

Fortunately, it was barely an hour and 20 minutes before we were deposited in Cape May, New Jersey and began the short drive across countless small bridges to our temporary digs. Never having been to the Jersey shore, I was unprepared for how ticky tacky beach architecture in these parts is.

Glorified ramblers, cinder block cubes and disproportionate split levels were surrounded by statues of the virgin Mary, white plastic fences and moving projections of the Easter bunny and eggs (okay, the latter was on the downstairs of the condo where we're staying). If I'd thought about it beforehand, I'd have realized that of course the Jersey shore would look like this.

I'm not mocking it all. Some of the very dated elements are perfectly charming in a mid-century kitchy way. Just over a block away sits the Biscayne, its sign looking like something straight out of a 1957 motoring magazine.

With less than an hour to sunset, Mac and I fought the wind the few blocks to the beach, only to find that we then had to traverse a beach as wide as a football field. Let's put it this way: when we set foot on the sand, we couldn't hear the crashing of the surf, despite being able to see the breakers as we walked toward them.

Looking to the north, we spotted an amusement park, glowing in the warm tones of the early evening sunset, as picaresque a Jersey vignette as we could've hoped for. I could practically hear Springsteen singing in the background.

Naturally, if we'd walked to the ocean, we had to walk to the sound since it was just a couple blocks past our condo. If possible, the wind was even stronger on that side, without the consolation of crashing waves. Enough with the wind already.

When we finally took off for dinner, we had to cross all those little bridges again, including one that had a toll in only one direction (the one we were going), with the tollkeeper's both at the pinnacle of the bridge. I told Mac, the only bridge with a tollbooth in the center that I know of is the one in "It's a Wonderful Life" where George Bailey decides to jump off. Now we know they exist in real life, too.

One hazard of the Jersey shore in March is a sharp reduction in open restaurants, but Lucky Bones welcomed us in, along with a good-sized Tuesday night crowd. It was their menu that informed us that Cape Island was once a whaling village and not always a cheesy resort with bad architecture and punishing winds.

Since Lucky Bones had a brick pizza oven, I chose the 'shrooms and cheese white pie with Kennett Square mushrooms (mushroom capital of the world, and close enough in Pennsylvania), Pecorino-Romano and my favorite, Tallegio, a pie so fabulous, I devoured all but a few crust bones, which I gallantly donated to the wine and garlic broth on Mac's pasta. After all, a girl's gotta sop and she'd finished her lone piece of bread, poor thing.

As if Lucky Bones hadn't already won our allegiance being open 365 days a year, they sealed the deal when piping hot shot glasses of dark hot chocolate crowned with whipped cream were delivered to us. Belmont Food Shop ends every meal with truffles; Lucky's with hot chocolate shots.

On a wildly windy and ridiculously cold March night, it was a generous serving of Jersey shore welcome. Motto: make the best of it, not whine about the wind.

And when you start turning green around the gills, put your head down.