The Armpit of Wilmington: A Small Coastal Town in North Carolina

Let me start by saying I understand Economics. Supply and Demand. The whole "when supply is down, demand goes up" principle. When it comes to the town of Wilmington, NC, supply and demand is the gas that fuels our very flammable economy. What I'm talking about is the tourism community that makes my life very difficult to live from the months of March through August.

Over dinner the other night, a plump man wearing a floral print shirt, a pair of chinos, and a very strawberry suntan made the perplexing comment, "We had to wait forty-five minutes to get a table. It was ridiculous," after I heard his ten minute conversation about how they were vacationing from Ohio. I wonder if he realized that his kind is the same reason others had to wait.

It is ridiculous! You're right!! I thought. It's ridiculous that, because of people like him, I struggle to make it to work on time everyday trying to estimate the level of tourism that week. The Azalea Festival is in town? I guess downtown is out of question this weekend. Labor Day weekend? Beaches are packed. Best to stay home. What sickens him for a week and a half is the same virus that infects me year round, the masses.

I can spot them. They look like ants to me. Extreme suntan burns. Suntan lines where they left their glasses on at the beach. Out of state license tags. Our town is the scrap piece of cheese on the ground, and every year this time the insects descend upon our town to eat up all the resources. Like wearing camouflage, they try their best to blend in amongst us. But I see them, the confused looks on their faces while they drive. Turn signals on. Red lights on the breaks, warning me to slow down. Then after their realization they are turning on the wrong street, turn signals come off and they ease onto the accelerator. Like an investigator, I speed up and pull aside them to confirm my suspicions. There in the passenger seat is an old lady wearing a bright yellow Wrightsville Beach cap studying a map like a college student cramming for finals.

Wrightsville Beach. A beautiful beach. Beautiful things bring beautiful prices. $1.50 for me to park each hour I'm there. For those that are coming from out of town, to pay $1.50 for four hours a day and one week is not a tremendous amount of money. But to live here, well, let's just say it adds up a wee bit. Fourth of July comes, and the town that I call home is now invaded and I have to lug two coolers and a towel one and a half miles b/c that was the closest parking spot. Evidently, my devotion to the beach and the town I love puts me on the same playing field as others who choose not call this area "home."

Don't feel sorry for me? I'm sure you don't. But feel sorry for my dog. She can only feel the sand on her paws during the offseason up until March, the cutoff date for allowing dogs on the beach. We have to make way for the crowds. Wouldn't want my dog messing up their family trip by crapping in the sand and being the procuring cause for a very dirty, clumpy sand castle.

Last year on my honeymoon in Hawaii, I went with a certain amount of sympathy for the residents of Oahu. Sure, they live in a beautiful place, one that thrives on tourism. In fact, it's provided many restaurant, hotel, bar jobs for those that live in the area, and there's no doubt that if tourism declined it would certainly take its toll on the community. While we were there, we found ourselves conforming to their culture and way of life. Native residents in Hawaii tend to work on a slower paced schedule, choosing to not rush around but rather enjoy life every second. "15 Hawaiian minutes" is a phrased often used there. One saying, "We'll be there in 15 Hawaiian minutes" simply meant that they'll be there when they get there, whether it's 15 or an hour later. My point here is, though unstructured and messy, is that when we went we were kind to the locals, didn't pretend like we knew where we were going and held up the traffic behind us, respected the local culture and embraced it. On Sunday when we arrived in Honolulu, we went out to eat that night in Waikiki. By 8:00 Hawaii time, with the time transitions and all it had been a period of 24 hours since we last slept, and that's not an exaggeration. Needless to say we were tired and hungry. The first restaurant we came to was an hour and forty five minute wait. Did I bitch once? I think not. While waiting in line I thought of the locals, and how if they wanted to go out and get dinner for their family they were forced to wait right along with us. Imagine that throughout the year!?!? Ever thought about that?

I have to say, this article is mainly concentrated on out of state visitors. Anyone who has lived in North Carolina over 10 years knows that the majority of the population in the state are kind, good hearted people that wear morals and religion on their flannel sleeves. Were the culture that mainstream America considers "uneducated" however that doesnt stop me or anyone I know from still saying "Yes sir," or "Yes maam" to others, waving at people in the street, or saying "hello" to stranger passing by. Frankly, those are the kind of people I want to surround myself with until the day that I die. Call us "uneducated" but were sure as hell a friendly bunch of sweet tea drinkin folks. Anyway, the cultural difference between southerners and northerners is an entirely different blog in itself, one that I refuse to write at the moment. My point here is, those visiting from other states, mostly the north, tend to flock to local hotspots and bars to blend in and experience Wilmington nightlife. I dont know if its since they dont know anyone here and arent afraid to make fools of themselves, they tend to throw their good decision making abilities out the window. Loud and obnoxious. They cant fake their greasy, completely uncharming Jersey accents. They yell. They start fights in bars. They look for opportunities to belittle those around them. "What are you looking at?" one might say if I glanced his way, laughing shortly after as if he scored bully points with his friends. I like to think of these times at the beach bars as their moments of glory, the time they can let loose and have fun, before they have to return inland and share their beach bar experiences and memories with buddies back home. They want to make their mark. Again, if you experienced this consistently then this blog would be scoring some major points. Its okay to come to the bars and experience them, just please treat them with the same respect as those back home.

It still doesnt end. "Yes I would like to make a reservation for two," I said into the phone. The voice on the other end belonged to a hostess at The RiverBoat Landing in downtown Wilmington, one of my wife's favorite spots to eat. Little two seater balconies grace the side of the building, overlooking the riverfront. You can see it from across the Cape Fear River, its baby blue exterior shining like a beacon, beckoning those to visit and have a glass or two from their killer wine selection. For a romantic, this restaurant is a gem. The place has sentimental value. I took my wife there on the night I proposed to her. "I'm sorry, but the restaurant has stopped taking reservations for the night. We're booked solid." Its a good thing it wasnt our anniversary. Guess well just stay in tonight.

But it's not only prices, traffic, and money. Our scars run deeper. Like the tree limbs that nearly crashed through my car window during Hurricane Ophelia last year. We sit through hurricanes, empty our wallets, and tolerate the traffic of beachgoers, going to a beach that most locals don't bother going to b/c they'd rather have a root canal than find a parking spot anywhere within a mile. But where we put our homes and lives on the line during the inevitable hurricane season, the town chooses not to reward us by giving "us" priority over "them." A good example here is the New Orleans/Hurricane Katrina mess. We feel sympathy for those there, but do we truly understand what theyre going through unless we experienced it ourselves?

The scars run even deeper. I've had the pleasure of being involved with real estate in this beautiful town. Needless to say, I am pretty up to date on the growth here. It's helped fatten up my wallet, but there's a certain amount of sadness that comes with it. Like graffiti on a public wall, the scenic integrity of Wilmington has been compromised and littered on by stripmalls, parking lots, and boutiques. Places for people to shop while they're here. Spending money. Fuel for the economy. Fuel for the machine. Every inch of sacred space used up. Houses are going up everywhere. Out of staters buying second homes here, driving market prices through the roof and ultimately making things unaffordable for the Average Joe like myself that live here permanently. Imagine an empty living room. Then clutter them with boxes and before long you can't see the floor you're walking on. You feel lost. You don't recognize where you are anymore.

In an economy that I pump money into year round, it's beyond me why the locals aren't rewarded more for their loyalty. Before you scramble to rebut my argument, understand first that Im not saying we should close the bridges to tourists, refuse to let anyone else in. My complaint here isn't that tourists shouldn't see this beautiful place. By all means, it's why I fell in love with the town. It's like no other. I think that since we have to pay the prices year round that locals pay for a week or two, there should be some balance. Discounts for locals at restaurants. Different waiting lines. Discounts on clothing, surf boards, etc... Locals not paying for parking at the beach and have the ability to park closer. Small cover charges for locals at the bars. Designated lanes for tourists while driving. More visitor information centers placed throughout town so out of towners can familiarize themselves with Wilmington. Sound hard to authorize? Not really. It's nothing that requiring a driver's license at local establishments and throwing some paint on the road cant handle.