The AC - Part 1

Over the years, I had heard stories about a magical city. The stories told of a place where everyone is welcome, and where most would leave with fond memories, as well as tales of excitement, adventure, romance and great riches. While some cities are nothing more than the buildings which they encompass, this is a place with a heart and soul that is inextricably entwined with the rich tapestry of human history upon which its foundations are set. I had a feeling that any sentiments I had for London, New York, Vienna, or even Sydney would soon pale into insignificance; I was going to Atlantic City.

It was a particularly hot Friday in August, and minutes of meticulous planning were about to come to fruition as Corey and I each packed a change of clothes and strolled out of the house towards the subway station. To the casual onlooker, we may have looked our jovial selves, loudly and sporadically singing snippets of ‘White Stripes’ songs, but we were also somewhat humbled by the thought that in a few short hours we would be in the AC.

We reached the Port Authority bus terminal at about 12:25pm. After finding a timetable, we worked out that the next bus was due to leave at 12:30pm. At 12:29pm we had tickets, and set about running, in thongs (flip-flops), to the next building and up two flights of stairs to our bus’s departure gate. Luck was on our side, and we reached the bus with a very comfortable 5 or 10 seconds to spare.

Once on the bus, we realised that the chance of us sitting together was slim, and the people already seated were not nearly so slim. At least they realised this:

Corey: Excuse me mate? Mind if I sit here?
Large Gentleman: Are you kidding? I’ve got to be the biggest guy on this f^&king bus!

Eventually, we found a couple of seats, and settled in for the bus ride.

About 15 minutes into the journey, I had a startling realisation:

Michael: Hey Corey, I don’t want to alarm you, but we’re driving on the wrong side of the road. Should I tell the driver?

As it turns out, everyone in the USA drives on the wrong side of the road, and so with the chance of imminent death somewhat reduced, I relaxed and listened to some music.

There was only one short stop in the trip, at a place called Tom’s River. I would be lying if I said I saw any redeeming quality about this place. However, I was obviously in the minority, because once we boarded the bus again, there was only about 3 other passengers continuing through to AC. The attraction of Tom’s River will forever remain a mystery.

We arrived at AC at about 3pm, and set about getting checked in to our accommodation. Lots of people who visit AC choose to stay in the elaborately decorated themed hotels that dot the boardwalk alongside the beach. Corey and I had considered that option, but instead had elected for a more rustic AC experience. After getting some directions, we headed off towards the “Inn of the Irish Pub”, our home away from home for the next two days.

Before seeing our room, we ventured into the Irish Pub itself. I’m not sure what exactly made the pub Irish, unless Ireland is always dark and smells really bad, in which case it was very authentic. After seeing the pub, we had high hopes for the quality of our room, and we weren’t disappointed. It was everything we could have asked for; warm, unventilated, damp and with a faint odour that was hard to describe, yet nonetheless unpleasant. Our two single beds were fully equipped with ill-fitting sheets, uncomfortable mattresses as well as ever-important plastic mattress protectors. Now was not the time to explore whether our shared bathroom facilities would match the plush decadence of our room, so we left our bags, and walked very briskly away from the Irish Pub. With sleeping out of the question, we had just added a few valuable hours to our AC time.