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When my roommate from New Jersey talks about WaWa, it’s as if she’s describing some mythical place like Oz or Never-Never Land. She drools over the thought of WaWa’s peach iced tea and comes home with bags of pre-packaged salads, hot panini sandwiches and mini donuts. My other roommate, who is from close to Philly (the original land of WaWa), raves about the gas station’s coffee bar, with its massive lineup of coffee types, flavored creamers, mini marshmallows and shakers of cocoa powder, cinnamon and vanilla. I never quite understood either of their odd fascinations with the weirdly-named store (WaWa? I mean, isn’t that the noise a baby makes?). Nonetheless, when they exclaimed (for months, I might add) that WaWa was coming, I too awaited the store’s arrival with anticipation.

I was expecting something akin to 7-11. You see, as a native Coloradan, 7-11 was my gas station homeland. I worshiped Slurpees in the summertime (I mastered the technique of mixing the flavors and tapping the cup on the counter to ensure the maximum amount of Slurpee smooshed down into the cup). I also liked perusing the rows of candy and occasionally indulged in some stale round tortilla chips covered in an odd orange sauce called nacho cheese (what that rubbery sauce is, I will never know). I have some sweet nostalgia for my childhood 7-11. Yet, when I recently entered WaWa for the first time, I must admit, WaWa puts 7-11 to shame. I suppose you could say I had a Come-to-WaWa-Experience.



UNSOLICITED ADVICE: Golden Age of Travel



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This post was prepared by staff at Point! Publishing. For inquiries call 954-603-4553.

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