Ellie Kemper Princeton, Wawa is a Native American word for the Canada goose that lives in the Delaware Valley. Wa is a Princeton word for one of the greatest 24-hour food stores on Earth. Wow, Wa! are my words for how I feel about both one of the greatest 24-hour food stores on Earth, and the Canada goose.How do I put into words one of the most enduring relationships I have in this world? I’m not sure I know. How do I come to terms with the fact that whenever I come back to Princeton, it is the Wa that I am happiest to see? I do appreciate Blair Arch, and smile politely at my former professors, and give my friends half-hearted hugs, but it is the Wa that holds my undying adoration.
I’m not sure how successfully I would have navigated college without the help of this store. It stood by me through hundreds of late-night rehearsals, dozens of early-morning sports practices, upward of several study sessions, and 15 million WaBolis. It was always clean, efficient, and compassionate. How many people can you say that about, let alone marketplaces? Not a lot. The Wa was my safe haven after long nights of warm beer and wrong-color passes on the Street. It was somewhere I could go and immediately feel at ease. The Wa was my Cheers. It made me feel like someone was taking care of me; even though I was no longer at home, somebody still cared enough to make sure I had a hot dog before going to bed.
I don’t mean to glorify the Wa; I know that it has its share of flaws and shortcomings. The apple fritters often were sold out by 9 a.m. The Wa stopped carrying those vanilla crème-sandwich Snackwells my sophomore year. The liquid in the pickle barrel sometimes had a questionable tint to it. But in the overall scheme of things, these weren’t big deals. The big deal was the Wa, and how it never closed. To a wide-eyed and annoying Midwesterner like me, this was unheard-of. How could a food market never close? But it didn’t. Except once, and that was during a hurricane.
I wish that I could marry the Wa, but I know that I can’t. I don’t even understand what the vows would be. At the same time, the Wa displays all of the qualities that I hold most dear:
1) Constant and unchanging devotion to me
2) Funny (the name, Wawa, is really funny)
3) Amazing turkey-and-cheese sandwiches, made the way I want them, and ordered on a computer screen
What is left to WAnt? Wawa, you complete me.
My first date with the Wa was on a Tuesday afternoon, after my first morning of field hockey practice. Knowing no one and being bad at field hockey, I figured the least I could do was have a great lunch. But I figured wrong. The Wa was out of turkey. “No Turkey, sorry!!!” read the sign pasted on the cash register by the sandwich station. “There’s no turkey for sandwiches?” I asked, somewhat unnecessarily, since the sign said there was no turkey, and the sign was sorry. “There’s no turkey, I’m sorry!” replied the cashier. In a world of uncertainty, two things were certain: 1) There was no turkey, and 2) they were sorry.
I didn’t know what to do. Unfamiliar with the Wawa and the weirdly nicknamed shuttle train next door, the Dinky, I wasn’t sure where to turn. But I had to turn somewhere. So I turned to the frozen-food section. I do that a lot, and it usually works out OK. This turn was no exception. Beside frozen dinners and chipotle burritos, this section presented one last refuge for me: Wawa ice cream. What? How could a little store like this have its very own line of ice cream? And yet it did.
I chose cookie dough. I was skeptical. The pint was too light; where was the cream? The price was too right; where was the luxury? And yet that first taste of Wawa cookie dough ice cream told me all I needed to know. This was good. This was reliable. This was the Wa.
They say that you never get a second chance to make a first impression, but honestly, you often do. In this case, however, my second impression was the same as my first impression: cookie dough, again. And again, really good. But why was the Wa out of turkey two days in a row? That was the only part that was weird. I’ve never seen that happen since, so I can only attribute it to fate. Fate works in mysterious ways, though, and when fate closes a turkey sandwich, I have found that it often opens a cookie dough ice cream pint.
The Wa always was welcoming, and it always had something to give me. I had to pay for it, so it wasn’t a true gift, but the Wa always was willing to sell me something. And a companion like that is pretty valuable in a time as tumultuous and stressful as college. So, thank you, Wa. Thank you for your ice cream, and your mostly turkey sandwiches, and your hilarious name. Mostly, thank you for being there for me. And for not hating me when I tell you that your pickle barrel is seriously alarming. But luckily for both of us, I am in the market for ice cream, not pickles. Until I am pregnant. And even then, I will love you just the same.
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