We’re still not quite home, so I’m not ready to regale you with the details of the clusterfuck that was our vacation. (I use the term “clusterfuck” in the most affectionate sense here.)
I do, however, have some thoughts about camping in general.
I did not love a lot of our camping this week. (Although I do tend to bitch more for comic effect than true misery.) But I don’t think I can hold a grudge against camping in general, but rather CAMPGROUNDS.
Aside from the sleeping on hard, hard ground part of camping–which is both tolerable AND fixable through better equipment planning/setup or remembering to bring an air pump–I actually quite enjoyed the camping. I like the campfire, the food-stealing wildlife, the fresh air, and the lack of electricity. (Although in no way do I condone a lack of iPhone connectivity.)
What I do NOT care for are the assholes who play loud (crappy) music all day. Or the gangs of children running through my campsite shrieking. Or the condoms I had to walk back and forth past on the way to the bathroom–and don’t get me started on campground bathrooms. Or the people talking really loudly at one in the morning or the dude I can hear snoring at six a.m.
No, I do not care for that. That campground hit every single one of my sensory triggers.
I do get that there is a lot of convenience in the campground and if not for the camp store, the fact that we left our lantern at home might have been a bigger deal.
Still, the next time we camp, I am going to suggest that we do it either in a more remote place or in a luxury fucking hotel.
Also, you can take this post as evidence that we are still (knock on wood) alive.