Life in the Curious State of New Jersey

 Life in the Curious State of New Jersey

A Quirky Tapestry Woven from Malls, Coffee, and the Unexpected

By Theodora Filis

In New Jersey, you can buy a pumpkin-scented candle, visit a Revolutionary War graveyard, and scream at a merging Prius—all before noon. The Garden State thrives in contradiction: a mosaic where mega-malls sit beside colonial churches, and every winding road leads either to a forest preserve or a 24-hour diner.

Sure, the state juggles its share of headaches—sky-high property taxes, biblical traffic, and weather that plays emotional roulette—but its blend of grit and grace makes life here feel like a never-ending scavenger hunt with a soundtrack of car horns and Springsteen.

To understand this place is to embrace its beautiful absurdity. Especially during rush hour, when reality warps into something almost extraterrestrial. Locals navigate their routines with the focus of survivors and the flair of cult-movie characters. Their devotion to the daily grind borders on religious.

Take away the malls and the state might collapse. No neon strip malls hugging highways, no food courts echoing with teen drama and parents' exasperated sighs. In Jersey, the mall isn’t just a place, it’s a ritual, a refuge, a town square. Ask anyone from Bergen to Cape May where to meet, eat, or hide from a nor’easter and the answer is always: “Let’s go to the mall.”

But first—Starbucks. Always. Before the day begins, before any meaningful human interaction can occur, the pilgrimage must be made. Tall plastic cups with domed lids and straws wide enough to double as batons are gripped like lifelines. These aren’t beverages—they’re suburban passports.

Caffeinated and proud, families pile into their SUVs—rolling fortresses brimming with gadgets and talismans. Rearview mirrors dangle with pine-scented trees, graduation tassels, and a constellation of bumper stickers that tell multi-generational sagas: Proud Parent, I Heart the Shore, My Kid’s an Honor Student, and of course, If You Can Read This, You’re Too Close—Because I Stop Short for Strip Malls.

Each sticker is a dialect. A declaration. A tribal marker in traffic.

Here, “safe driving” is more of a loose suggestion. Behind the wheel, multitasking becomes a competitive sport: balancing lattes, reading texts, passing snacks to backseat gremlins, and executing a flawless lipstick swipe in the half-second before the light turns green. It’s not dangerous. It’s New Jersey.

Even setting the clocks back sparks passionate debate. Neighbors gather to lament daylight saving as if it were a political scandal. And maybe it is. In this state, the ordinary teeters on the edge of the theatrical.

That’s the real heartbeat of New Jersey: a population that thrives on chaos, caffeination, and contradiction. A place where a trip to the mall is a social contract, a coffee order is a personality test, and the highway is a confessional. We don’t just live here. 

We survive, we multitask, and we merge—badly, but with conviction.