I Got to 'lantic City on a Frid'y

My friend PoloChick sent me an e-mail at noon last Friday:

Do you want to come to A.C. for the night?

Hmmm. My friend SassyScrubs promised a set-up at a party of hers that same night so I was ready to forgo gambling and club-hopping for that welcome scenario.

PoloChick sent me another e-mail:

It would be a free hotel room, free dinner and free car there and back ... still not interested?

It may as well have been an e-mail with the words "FREE!FREE!FREE!" flashing in neon lights. I e-mailed my friend SassyScrubs telling her my dilemma. She said not to worry, there would be other opportunities to meet her friend, but he definitely wanted to meet me at some point.

I wrote back to PoloChick:

I'm in.

It's been a while since I've had a spontaneous road trip. Being a professional in your late 20s does not lend well to zipping off in a couple of rental cars with a dozen of your closest friends and hitting up Key West, Myrtle Beach or Louisville (to name a few of my in-college destinations). Those were the good ol' days, or as Fashionista calls them, "the glory days."

I'd never been to Atlantic City. All I knew was my aunt and uncle had spent several a weekend there. I imagined my aunt hitting up the slot machines with a little bucket of quarters and Uncle G working the blackjack tables. I often hear of bachelor and bachelorette parties in A.C., but as for me, I'm not a gambling guru and casinos don't appeal to me at all.

If you do go to A.C., I recommend doing it no less glitzy or glam than we did. Cheese it up to the max!

Me: Where are we staying?
PoloChick: The Taj.
Me: I'm sorry, the what?
PoloChick: The Taj, as in the Taj Mahal.
Me: Oooooh, of course, the Taj!

The Taj is a Trump property. And in case you forget where you are, everything from the toilet paper, to the plastic cups, to the towels, to the cocktail stirs was emblazoned with "Trump." I scored a few plastic drinking cups (ok, maybe several) and they're sitting on my kitchen counter.

As we exited the limo, I'm sure we disappointed a lot of porters and visitors expecting some celebrity to come out with a chihuahua in hand. I snapped a few pictures as we walked in. I think these women were all still staring at the same machines 18 hours later when we checked out.

No matter what you think of Jersey, or casinos, I couldn't help but get sucked into the Vegas-like vibe. My affinity for the place surprised me. Could I really become an Atlantic City chick? The din of the machines binging and dinging and zinging made for a weird futuristic, orchestral overture. I got a sick enjoyment out of it, but couldn't imagine working from 12 a.m. to 10 a.m. having to listen to it.

We briefly discussed going to the new Chelsea Hotel (opened by the same people who run The Beatrice Inn). However, it was my friend PoloChick's cousin's friend's birthday so we didn't have much say in the matter. Being guests of guests, I just smiled, sipped champagne in the suite, watched the Olympics opening ceremony, went where I was told and drank what was put in front of me.

We stuffed our faces with some yummy fried room service, thanks to a friendly butler taking care of our party, then we headed to the club 32 Degrees. I almost died. It was in a mall. I was dolled up in a new, sassy dress and had to laugh at myself. Who was I kidding? Did I think I'd be meeting Mr. Wonderful at a club in a mall in Atlantic City? Oh well. You never know.


Saturday was a spectacular day of crisp blue and puffy white sky and we spent it lying out on the beach in front of the Taj. There was a boardwalk with some curious people in between me and the sand, but it was tolerable and entertaining. The characters were similar to those you find in Coney Island. Boardwalks seem to be magnets for the eccentric and mildly unstable.


"Ice cream, ice cream, ice! Get your cold ice cream, ice cream, ice!"

Our crew flagged down one of the icemen with his big wheely cart. The strawberry fruit pops, or strawberry margaritas on a stick, were a hit.


The lifeguards were a hit too, with the tween set. I was out swimming for about a half an hour and was mildly off put when I noticed them repeatedly with their heads down reading the newspaper. I guess they didn't think they had to worry about me, being a swimmer and all, but with the multitude of riptide deaths this summer, I would have preferred a more eyes-on-the-surf approach to lifeguarding.


Despite having a blast and dancing on a box or two at club 32, I managed to escape Atlantic City with my dignity and class.

A co-worker threw me a $20 on my way out the door Friday, asking me to play his birthday -- 7/12 -- at the roulette tables. My timidity and ignorance with regards to roulette-iquette really pissed off the casino worker. I wanted to leave, crawl into a hole and tell my friend I couldn't find the huge section of roulette tables. Unlikely story. With the encouragement of NovaCat and PoloChick, however, I persevered and put money on his lucky numbers.

"Can I just not --"

"Just play," they said.

"Yah, but what if I --"

"Just play."