We went camping this weekend. You know how I love to camp. Being in nature, living with redwood trees as your walls, cooking on an open fire. I love sharing a space with birds, critters and perhaps a river trickling by.
Sitting around a perfectly constructed fire at night, as the sun dips and the air cools is perhaps my most favorite pastime. Having my children tell stories while dipping a stick into the flames to make fire fairies or toasting the perfect marshmallows is a slice of nirvana for me. You get the idea. I love the tranquility, the simpleness, the elements, the beauty.
I do not love blaring rock music, children screaming well past midnight, cigarette smoke and 6 am risers with their zips and their plastic bags.
Our camp ground was billed as "Perfect for families. Quiet with a strict observations of quiet hours (10pm - 8am). Not for groups. Clean and well appointed." I will give it clean. Perhaps I am being unfair - perfect for families is also accurate. Which is why we were serenaded by babies every two hours of the night. Babies who wanted to cry their lungs out for at least thirty minutes at a time.
Quiet - not even a tiny bit. Not even for five minutes. Again, I may be unfair. It *might* have been quiet for five minutes between 4.55 am and 5 am. Maybe.
Well appointed. If sharing three toilets with 120 people counts, then yes well appointed. Having a millimeter of nylon between you and a busy road could be considered well appointed, in that it was convienant for, well - the road.
Strict observation of quiet hours. I suppose the trick here is the interpretation of the word 'observation.' Perhaps they did observe the blatant disregard for any kind of quiet and then laugh all the way to the bank with our $50 per night.
As I fumed around my perfectly constructed campfire, I wondered if the problem lies with me. High expectations. My belief in printed word and the obligation to uphold your printed rules. In the end I concluded it is time for us to do backpacking.