Upon retrospect we should have taken the train. The train would have taken us into New Brunswick, a perfectly nice town with a lovely view from the rails: a majestic white-columned building rising over the South River (that is when the river isn’t dried out). But no, we have to drive.

New Jersey gets a bad rap. The armpit of New York, just another borough - I’ve heard it all and have had to defend my home state over and over. (The recent campaign for a state motto doesn’t help.)

“This is the Garden State?” my co-worker asks as we drive through the smelliness that is the New Jersey Turnpike.

“It’s only this part that’s smelly,” I assure her, this part meaning Newark, Elizabeth, and Rahway, and tell her about the more garden-like parts of the Garden State, like the Princeton area and Hopewell and even my hometown, Freehold, land o’ Bruce, the raceway, and the occasional mob hit (at least according to The Sopranos).

But the smelliness doesn’t abate. It hangs like a supernatural fart for the rest of our destination. And what was our destination? Drumroll, please. . . . Lovely Piscataway.

Okay, there’s no way I can defend New Jersey with Piscataway representin’. It’s a dump, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. We may not have known this if we just go where we’re supposed to, but we have to drive around, looking for a Starbuck’s. At first we find nothing, just office park after office park.

“Where do people eat?” I wonder.

My co-worker shakes her head. “This isn’t right.”

What we do find is crummy, a bar that’s like something out of Roseanne, a greasy-looking deli, and a boarded-up flower shop. “This is sooo crummy,” I say.

Finally we take a chance with QuickChek, two of which we pass and which I’ve never heard of. WaWa yes, QuickChek, no. Surprisngly though the coffee is amazing. Better ‘n Gar-bucks.

“How was your drive?” our host asks us when we finally get to where we’re going.

“Very nice,” my co-worker says. “We took a tour through lovely Piscataway.” Our host looks genuinely confused.

Our host’s colleagues are as adamant as I am about convincing my co-worker that there *are* nice parts of New Jersey. “Metuchen’s very nice,” one says. “And Maplewood,” says another. “I’m from Patterson,” still another says. “Patterson’s nice,” someone else says. Still my co-worker seems unconvinced.

I really am proud of being a Jersey girl. One of my friends says wouldn’t it be better to be from someplace cooler, from someplace with flava, but what could be more flava-ful than big hair, the boardwalk, and Bruce (yes, I know I already mentioned him, we Jersey-ites will beat that dead horse to glue)? I like being from someplace interesting, despite the crummy bits and smelliness.

But as we drive back home, which is the city for both of us, I’m glad I don’t live in NJ anymore. There’s too much history for me there. I think of my childhood and remember the good things - biking to my friends’ houses, fireworks in Liberty Oak Park, exploring the woods behind my house with my brother - but then fissures peek through. Being the only Chinese family in a predominatly Jewish/Italian town, the boredom of suburbia in the summer, the misfortune of having worn acid wash jeans. New Jersey is indeed the Garden State, but then there are fissures like Piscatway.