down the shore

Wildwood. A place I will never visit again. The weekend before Easter may not, admittedly, display Wildwood at its best, but really its best might eek out a position slightly above Sunderland on a January morning for worst holiday destination. Downtown boasted shuttered restaurants thanking you for "the great season" and real estate offices pleading for custom. But most unnervingly, there were no other people. We had driven into a scene of "The Walking Dead"; I kept wanting to scan the rooftops for survivors. Even the hotel's car park was frightening as it contained our car, the manager's car and one other forlorn vehicle, possibly a lost soul from "the great season".
The middle-aged manageress huddled in her winter jacket peered curiously at us at check in.
"Why would you come down now?" She asked incredulously.

Leaving the deafening heating unit blasting warm air into our room, we ventured to the boardwalk, the symbol of American beach holidays. Traditionally, visitors stroll down the wooden parallel pier with the glistening beach on one side and a smorgasbord of arcades, candy floss, tacky souvenirs, and, inexplicably, Christmas decorations on the other. On previous shore trips. I've enjoyed hours of tacky, cheesy fun at the boardwalk; on this trip, our visit lasted maybe five minutes. The only open establishments were two body piercing and tattoos parlors. A couple of "walking dead" extras glared at us from gloomy doorways.

Luckily, the delightfully quaint island of Cape May was open for business and only four miles from Wildwood. We spent a lovely 36 hours climbing the lighthouse, putting our toes in the ocean, buying earrings made of wood and pressed flowers, gorging on crustaceans and feeding the goats the zoo. Returning to Wildwood was like visiting a slightly-off aunt who was once an attractive young woman, in the right light, but the years had been cruel to her.