Wilmington Appears to be a Dump

Here is exactly what I wrote in my journal today during my adventure into southeastern North Carolina. Added comments are in brackets.

8-26 The Fat Pelican, somewhere just south of Wilmington
Wow. What a place [I was referring specifically to the bar]. It's a rummage sale that sells beer. The Wilmington area has the University, lots of Food Lion stores and lots of tourist crap. It's the same kind of schlock you always see when you're near an ocean. I paid $3.25 for a bottle of Fuller's London Porter. Quite a good deal, for a bar.
I have reached the end of the 40.
The bartender and her one [other] customer are really cool.
-Later-
God, what an ugly town. Virtually all of it is either run-down or touristy. Much of it is both. It's fun to be driving around, though. The road washes away ennui. I found myself driving (miraculously not getting lost) through shitty neighborhoods, hungry, gradually going from "I want someplace local and interesting" to "I think McDonald's will be fine" to "I'll have nothing. Where the hell is the freeway?"
I'm presently at Sticky Fingers Restaurant and Bar, blissfully close to I-40 and then home. This was a brief excursion, and I hadn't mentally prepared for full-scale local color exploration. Therefore, I was ready to come home and sit on the couch shortly after I finished my Porter at the Fat Pelican.

It was a very cursory glance at Wilmington, and to call it a dump is probably unfair. However, it certainly looked like shit to me. Dubious-looking seafood restaurants, motels with names like "Crabcatcher's Reef Lodge" and gift shops abound there. None of them appear to have seen a can of paint since Carter was in office. That's in addition to the normal background of Food Lions and Dollar stores that occur in North Carolina at a rate of 9 or 10 per square mile.
I love to get out and see stuff like that. I love the road. Unfortunately, when I started homeward, I missed the opportunity to snap a picture of the signs that said "BEGIN I-40 WEST" and "BARSTOW, CALIFORNIA 2554 MILES." Almost exactly one year after I quit and moved here, I have completed a symbolic journey. I got a job and I saw the end of Interstate 40. I suppose the continent-spanning ribbon of concrete is my Mississippi, in a Twain sort of way. Or maybe none of it means anything, and I drove 140-odd miles each way just to have a beer and a pork sandwich.