Wed, Aug 20 at 9:17 PM

you:

[image description: inside a dimly lit car, a hand is stretched out holding a large cup of glorious iced green liquid whipped cream perfection]

wawa has matcha

5 dollars

lil bro:

WISIEHEJQHSJDHAJSJD

JAHFJWJAKWPSKDJWVAJKDBDJSKSKDBD

24 oz

cry

. . .

Somewhere between Virginia and New York (right outside Delaware, in this case), take a nondescript exit off I-95 (109, for instance) and merge onto the local roads that branch off from this artery of America’s pinnacle. Find yourself on multilane streets lined with the typical fast food chains and gas stations: Wendy’s and Family Fare, Sonic and Sunoco. The chains don’t matter; their functions are all the same. Find yourself in a land of parking lots and overnight LED lights because, eons ago, God looked upon this Earth and thought: Man, a Walmart Supercenter would look so good right here. Find yourself turning right in ninety-eight ft. Find yourself readjusting your eyes and taking out your earbuds, the bass still pulsing beneath your fingertips. Find yourself rebuttoning the top of your jeans before opening the door. Find yourself hit by wafts of fresh air that cleanse you from the near perpetual, distinctly car smell of the past few hours. Find yourself, then, looking up and seeing…it. The holy ground. The land of scripture. The lights suddenly sparkle. The constant whoosh of cars rushing by becomes a chorus. Find yourself in the presence of all things divine because—correction from earlier—there is an exception to the interchangeability of regional gas station chains, believe it or not. Find yourself in that timeless space between Virginia and New York, standing beneath four red letters and the silhouette of Jesus Christ himself (a flying goose). Find yourself. Find yourself. Find yourself.

. . .

I don’t clearly remember my first trip to Wawa. I imagine it was sometime during elementary school, when my parents still planned summer family road trips—usually to locations within a reasonable distance. Out of my siblings, I always got carsick the easiest. Philadelphia and the Chesapeake Bay occupy a particularly hazy spot in my brain, but what I recall is sitting in the backseat next to my brother, a plastic bag by my side at all times in case of emergency. Each passing state meant another rest stop, a saving grace, a brief intermission from the constant, literal transition between places. 

I imagine Wawa entered my life the same way—as a stop for gas and bathroom purposes. I groggily step out of the car, a small sickly feeling in the pit of my stomach. I walk inside and there, right in front of me, framed by aisles of convenience store snacks, is the one and only Wawa food service counter. At the touch of a self-order kiosk is everything a barely-cognizant ten-year-old could dream of: built-to-order custom hoagies, specialty sandwiches, bowls, sides, and dozens of every kind of beverage. The air conditioner blows in the ambience, and my stomach lightens. This is it, I (probably) thought. I’ve ascended. My brother orders a mashed potato bowl with all sorts of cheeses. My sister orders a mac and cheese bowl in parallel, chicken strips included. I come up with my own dream concoction of an Italian panini: salami and ham and tomatoes and honey mustard and pepper jack cheese—a combination that’s probably (definitely) sacrilegious in all other contexts—because why not. We all file into our self-designated car seats and munch on our goods as we drive into the night.

Since then, Wawa has become somewhat of a staple in my family—every time we find ourselves crossing the border into Virginia, once Cook Out and Bojangles disappear from the Food Exit signs along the highway, all talk shifts to the ideal location to stop by later for lunch. I’ve developed a carefully curated routine from my sporadic encounters with this paradise over the years. A Wawa is a thing of awe for those condemned to the tragic fate of living in a Wawa-less region. A Wawa panini is a delicacy, a once-a-year (at best) occasion, a rite of passage. A Wawa stop is a thing ephemeral, a thing liminal. For me, a Wawa only exists off an exit on I-95, on a drive up to New England for college, on a drive home to the South, for a meal shared with two other hungry mouths, for a meal by myself. 

I stare up at my own private cathedral, wondering what temporary, future version of myself will do the same the next time I enter.

. . .

Step 1: Enter through the glass doors and relish in the novelty for a moment (the sanctity of the hour, the completion of another pilgrimage).

Step 2: Search through the chip aisle for Original Bugles (because nowhere back home seems to embrace whimsy enough to ever stock them).

Step 3: Order the usual at the kiosk—you know the drill (with honey mustard and pepper jack, because apparently some people never grow out of their pickiness).

Step 4: Peruse through the beverage menu. There’s always something new. (This time, it’s a whole debut matcha menu.)

Step 5: Sit in the car while the GPS calculates the new coordinates. Place a Bugle on each of your five fingers, then eat them off one by one. Sip from and bask in the glory of twenty-four beautiful ounces of ice-cold matcha (mint-flavored, because of course that was an option).

Step 6: Watch the gas station lights disappear from view through the passenger window, box still hot on your lap. Leave another version of yourself behind, preserved in fluorescent lights and concrete surfaces.

Step 7: Wonder if you romanticize things too easily, to the extent of glorifying a random regional gas station chain to which you have no grounded connection. Then bite down into your combination of bread and cheese and tomato, and decide: No, this is something holy.