I loathe camping.
If my teacher at Tavennerville Elementary had required us to write the perennial essay “How I Spent My Summer Vacation” AND if when I was 10 I knew the word “loathe”, the opening salvo would have been…
“I loathe camping”.
My Dad’s idea of a family vacation was to pile us into our Chevy station wagon (you know, the vehicle that predated mini-vans) and head out to Odd Fellows Park for a week-long camping trip. One tent. One outhouse. One river.
Several years ago after being asked repeatedly to give camping another try, I begrudgingly relented. Since my birthday was coming up, some of my family decided to outfit me for the trip. I was “gifted” with a sleeping bag, fishing pole, lantern… you get the picture. Worst birthday ever!
I spent approximately 20 minutes in a damp musty pop-up camper, spotted a spider and slept in my car for two nights.
I learned a long time ago that my definition of vacation vastly differed from other members of my family. For example, my definition included indoor plumbing.
The Gen X Traveler