Glorious Wrightsville, how I missed thee!

Summer has officially begun. My bride and I made our triumphant return to the shores of the Atlantic this past holiday weekend for two and a half days of relaxation, merry-making, and intoxication.

The experience was quite a bit more pleasant than that of past excursions which I have described over the short history of this web-log. Overall, Dame Fortune seemed to be favoring us this weekend. Granny provided $300 for gas and food. Weather forecasts were calling for showers Saturday, but nary a drop fell the entire extended weekend until we were on the highway bound for home. We had cloudless skies Sunday and Monday with balmy breezes. The beach was relatively uncrowded, and the only major annoyance was a gaggle of guffawing teenagers on Monday who, for whatever reason, walked everywhere arm-in-arm, and had not been taught about inside voices. We were able to sit at a table on our trips to Trolley Stop and Kohl's, rather than on a bench or the ground. Traffic was a bitch, especially on the return trip from Dockside, when the drawbridge had to be raised, but we lucked out on a parking spot on Lumina Avenue (we needed to stop at Robert's Market) with 52 minutes still on the meter.

Friday evening's traffic was heavy, but I think we missed far worse conditions by leaving at 4:30. Having prepared all luggage and bagged groceries the day before, we managed to jam everything into the 4runner in 10 minutes. We dined on delicious Smithfield's eastern N.C. barbecue on the way, a BBQ restaurant chain which has frustratingly not yet expanded operations into the central part of the state. After unpacking, it was time to begin our favorite beach activity: drinking! Thanks to not having eaten anything for 4 hours, I quickly became intoxicated from two 24-oz PBRs and spent part of the night trying not to vomit.

Saturday began with a leisurely breakfast on the balcony, followed by preparations for a day of sunning. We dined at Trolley Stop, then it was off to the beach. We came inside around 7:00 and grilled chicken & potatoes for supper. We got too relaxed watching installments of "America: The Story of Us" on the History Channel, and turned in early, but our stomachs got to rumbling, so I walked down to Vito's and got a whole pizza, which we devoured in bed while watching Tropic Thunder on HBO, so the swears were left intact.

Following our own tradition, we had lunch Sunday at Dockside, arriving at exactly 11:45 as always in order to get a table on the deck. We poked around briefly at Redix, just because I always like to go there, and—huzzah!—they were selling the stamped Wrightsville Beach license plates again.

I should explain. For as long as I can remember, those who summer at Wrightsville Beach have proudly displayed a plate on the front bumper bearing the official emblem of the town (a jumping marlin and a small fishing boat) with the words WRIGHTSVILLE BEACH N.C. in green block letters. Such has become a status symbol, a signal to others that the bearer is a person of quality who frequents a quaint seaside retreat, and a member of an exclusive little club of regular visitors and property owners. Further enhancing its exclusivity, it is not available for purchase online to my knowledge; one must travel to Wrightsville Beach to acquire this coveted accessory in person. All last summer, the only available versions were printed, not embossed, possibly for economical reasons. The embossed version is the one I see on so many beach house owners' vehicles, faded and dented from so many years of exposure to sun, salt air, and road debris. This weekend, the embossed plates were once more available, so I pounced on the opportunity and purchased one for each of our vehicles. I may attempt to weather and distress them artificially if I can figure out how, to make up for three lost years.

More beach-sitting ensued, followed by a fabulous dinner at South Beach. We've been there before, but for first-timers reading this for travel advice, be advised that it is pricey, averaging $20 for entrées. Portions aren't large, but what you do get is of extremely high quality, and everything on the menu is outstanding. We had a couple drinks at King Neptune's, but the place wasn't getting very lively, so we moseyed down to Lagerheads. We were entertained briefly at King Neptune's by an inebriated fellow trying to pick up women half his age with corny pickup lines. "Do you like chicken? (holds out elbow) Here, grab a wing!" Only with his accent it almost sounded like wang. We only stayed until 12:30; my bride was getting sleepy-drunk, I was sweating profusely, and we both had to pee. We stayed up a little longer chatting on the balcony back at the condo. Around 2:30AM I awoke to a loud cheer coming from the bars, like a stadium full of fans witnessing a home run. I never got an explanation for it. Boobies, maybe?

The line at Trolley Stop was too long on Monday, so we ate at Kohl's instead, then crammed in a few more precious hours of beach time before the depressing task of packing up and heading home. We got home about 10:30, having missed the bulk of the return traffic.

As I indicated above, the crowd at Wrightsville was of slightly higher calibre than I encountered during my visits last year. The sleazy skater teens, tattooed, toothless white trash, and loudmouth ghetto scum were in thinner numbers, and classic preppy types were more noticeable. I was comforted by the site of young and old men alike clad in light-colored or madras shorts, pastel polo shirts, and loafers or boat shoes with no socks, either hatless or sporting headwear proclaiming their academic affiliation, in a decades-old tradition of fashion that never changes, true to the preppy way of life. There is a disheartening prevalence of UNC gear, but this artistic NCSU grad has to concede that Carolina Blue just looks better at a seaside location than Wolfpack Red. Despite my lifelong disregard for short pants, after wearing my one pair more frequently this past weekend, I may start wearing them again, but only when appropriate, like a well-heeled preppy.

O Wrightsville! Beloved Wrightsville! Summer retreat for fine, upstanding families of the Old North State. The place I should have been going my entire childhood (or possibly Nag's Head or Morehead). Every time I visit, I make up for the classic N.C. beach experience I missed out on growing up. The sprawling wasteland of Myrtle Beach simply does not compare to the beautiful houses and unpretentious restaurants that still look almost the same as they did when my classmates dined in them 15 years ago—seriously, I can identify Dockside in my yearbooks. At Wrightsville, we feel relaxed and at peace, tossing our worries and cares over the causeway bridge, and I reconnect with the glorious 1990s. Yes, I had to bring that up yet again. When I walk around the town or just the condo, I feel like I've stepped into a parallel universe where the carefree '90s live on. It helped with the delusion to listen to my '90s playlists on my iPod. Perhaps a vintage Discman is in the near future?