Making my first trip to the Jersey shore, rattling along the ol’ local North Jersey coast line, felt a bit like Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. I was journeying farther than civilization’s reach, in search of something mysterious, powerful, awe-inspiring. In short, I hoped to glimpse the mighty and legendary Guido.

Okay, forgive the melodrama, but my New York friends did a good job of hyping this stereotype. “Asshole Jersey folk are cheesy and rude,” they warned, adding that “they have a name for people like you too: Bennys.”

For a Londoner, this sounded all too familiar. Jersey translated to me as Essex. Always in London’s shadow, also by the coast and populated by shirtless lads who love to pound the daylights out of each other, Essex natives tend to be drunk off their heads on luminous-colored alcopops while dancing to some primal beat. To be avoided at all costs. This Jersey voyage promised to bring all of my cowardice flooding out. Thus, when I passed a pack of Guido-looking guys outside a summer house recently in Belmar, I quickened my pace and looked straight at the pavement. Except soon I was unsure of my bearings (I was looking for a place called Bar A), and these guys’ beer-strewn yard made me think they would know the location of virtually every bar on the Shore (they did), so I doubled back and approached with caution.

Within a few minutes, I was kicking back in a deck chair and shooting the breeze with beer in hand. One of the guys owned the summer house and every weekend hosted a group of about 20 friends to hang out in the sun and party. Soon enough, they had invited me along for a night out at Headliners, a bar down the road in

I also got to witness the famed (yet still inexplicable) pride. "Jersey’s great, I love Jersey," one declared. And at that moment, I couldn’t help but agree. So as I said goodbye to my new Guido friends, I’d like to think I bid farewell to some lazy stereotypes as well.