I grew up in a suburb about half an hour outside of Philly. We had a Wawa on nearly every street, with the closest one never further than five minutes away. However, a mention of Wawa is met with the pain of having to explain that it’s more than just a gas station.
In fact, the Wawa I grew up with didn’t even have a gas station – it was just a convenience store. In response to this information, the classic 7/11 comparison never goes unsaid, and each time, it’s another knife to my heart.
In moving to Boston for college, I never could’ve prepared for how much I would miss Wawa, or for the slanderous remarks made by anyone who isn’t from the Philadelphia/Jersey area. Comparing Wawa to a regular gas station is simply ignorant. It’s almost as painful as hearing “Sheetz is better.”
Wawa is part of the larger Philadelphian culture. What elsewhere may be known as a sub is a hoagie to someone from Philly, and a breakfast sandwich isn’t merely a breakfast sandwich – it’s a Sizzli.
It’s the culture I’m so eager to introduce to my friends who visit my town, hoping they’ll see Wawa for all that it is and can be. It’s the perfect midnight snack and the best morning pick-me-up, but you have to experience it to truly understand it.
The classic Dunkin’ and Starbucks coffee rivalry is heightened when a third competitor enters the ring, and with Wawa as an option, there’s hardly any competition at all. It’s cheaper, it’s more consistent, and honestly, it just tastes better.
It’s something outsiders can never understand. They’ll never understand the first early-morning sip of a salted caramel iced latte or the last late-night bite of a turkey hoagie. They’ll never understand how Hoagiefest has become a city-wide holiday, and Siptopia is something every Philly local looks forward to.
“Happiness in every sip” becomes the month’s mantra, and discounted hoagies are a daily lunch. The glorious Gobbler Bowl is a meal I wait all year for, but just one is plenty to hold you over until next Thanksgiving. There are so many things they can never understand.
I will advocate for Wawa until the day I die. I could move halfway across the world, where there are people who have never even heard of Wawa, and talk about it like it’s the best invention since sliced bread because it is, even with the subtle odor that sticks to your clothes after having spent only a minute in the store.
At this point, my pain has turned to pity, pity for the people who haven’t experienced Wawa in all of its beauty, and pity for the people who don’t have a Wawa to return home to when college breaks roll around. It’s more than just a gas station. It’s the heart of my home.
Oh, how I wish Wawa was in Boston.
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