R.V. People

We went south for Thanksgiving, as in ten-minutes-from-the-border south, to camp on the beach, surf, and fry a turkey-- three things which, in the wrong combination and with too much alcohol involved, could have resulted in sand fleas, cracked ribs, and full-body third-degree burns. Thankfully, nothing of the sort happened and I was physically comfortable the whole time.

To understand how remarkable this is, we need to step back, briefly, to one of my first outings with my husband (then boyfriend) three years ago. We were going to go camping in Oklahoma in late November. (I'd never been camping because technically, spending the night in your car sleeping off 6 Cuba Libres does not count.)

We left Austin at around 4:00 in the afternoon and pulled into our campsite in the Ouachita National Forest at 11:30. It was achingly cold, sleeting, and way too Blair Witch out there for me, so I figured I'd wait out the ensuing reality check in the car with the heater running. In less than fifteen minutes though, my husband managed to conjure fire from freezing, soaked earth, and without the aid of my old standby, half a gallon of gasoline splashed near a lit match. This was an actual campfire, and its golden light enticed me out of the car and into a tent where I shivered vigorously in the fetal position until morning. Once a cold like that gets into your bones, it quickly finds its way into your soul and carves a big frowny face there. I was so actively miserable for the next three days that my bowels shut down in protest.

So this is what I pictured when I heard "camping on the beach this Thanksgiving": bitter cold, slate grey sky, the jock-strap stink of most of the Texas coast, and sand in my molars and underwear for five days as I huddle in the tent with Power Bars and a bottle of whiskey. The group of people we were going with, however, balanced out the horror of this scenario and I packed willingly and even cheerfully, looking forward to some sorely needed non-military-wife female bonding and all around interesting conversation.

I got that, but in addition, I also got this: glass-clear water dotted with schools of tiny silver fish, warm breezes and slow tangerine-tinted sunsets, a bungalow with a hot shower (praise God) and a mini fridge, and glorious, edible food. I even surfed a little, if getting up on my knees on the board and giggling a lot, then paddling back to repeat, count as surfing. It was beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that people from the northern states and Canada are evidently willing to live half the year in gas-guzzling port-a-johns with little patches of astro-turf laid out as lawns just to be near it. That's right: we were nestled right in front of a small community of R.V. people.

I have nothing against R.V. people. In fact, if I lived in a place where being "snowed in" were even a remote possibility, or where I had to chip away the block of ice covering my windshield every morning before driving to work, I'd probably consider dropping about a year's salary on a tinier, crappier version of my own house and following the nearest highway south until I hit gulf.

But the lifestyle still puzzles me. Privacy, for instance. R.V. people must hear everything through those aluminum walls-- fights, copulation, oboe practice-- and I would imagine that rumors and gossip must spread like grass fires. Violations of personal space must be big too, not only with the person or people who share an R.V. but also with their neighbors. One man's Tejano music is another's rage-inducing audio-assault, and perhaps not everyone is comfortable seeing Mr. So-and-so's holey underwear hung to dry only inches from their breakfast room window. I know from experience that there's a certain square footage needed in a living space, particularly a kitchen, to keep me from repeatedly elbowing, tripping over, and running smack into my husband, and I'm pretty sure they don't make R.V.s that big.

Probably the biggest thing that puzzles me about R.V. people are R.V. pets. They seemed to serve some vital purpose because nearly every R.V. had one, and sometimes two or three. It seems counter intuitive to me that in order to make living in a tiny aluminum house on wheels better, one must add yet another living being, but after several days of observation I figured it out. Sure, there's the companionship level on which every pet is worth its weight in gold-- they don't argue or tell long-winded stories or ask if you've gained weight, and often all they have to do is come lay their chin on your lap and look up at you to make you feel like a worthwhile human being. But the real value of an R.V. pet is their inability to shit in a human toilet. The routine of seeing to an R.V. pet's daily shitting needs provides structure to the day, exercise for all involved, an excuse to meet other R.V. people and pets, and a brief period of separation for human occupants sharing an R.V. "Guess what I saw when I took Wendell out for a shit this morning?" they can say to each other, "Those people from North Dakota throwing out a whole frozen turkey!"

Our little party made the acquaintance of several delightful R.V. pets and their respective people. One was a tubby yellow lab in the next bungalow over (so not technically an R.V. pet, but close), whose name was something in French that none of us caught. Her people were from Quebec and planned on staying put until April, which did nothing for my desire to someday visit Quebec. They also had a tiny, blue-eyed, white kitten who was set permanently on "vibrate," and who they'd picked up at a gas station somewhere up north. Early on the first morning, my husband and I also met a lady down on the beach who'd brought her giant scarlet macaw, who was huddled up close against her ear, digging his massive gray claws into her shoulder and eyeing the waves with uncertainty. Every morning and every evening, a dapper old man would putter around the perimeter of the park on his scooter with a milk crate strapped to the back, in which a perky-eared, fluffy little fox-like dog rode. My favorite, though, was Sam.

Sam was a stately old golden retriever who showed up with a pack of bikers late on the last evening. He was trim and well groomed, and carried himself with an understated dignity that made up for the wretched musical taste of his people. Throughout the night, we'd see Sam trot back and forth, always quietly focused on some vaguely pleasing errand. The next morning, as we were packing and slowly coming to terms with our various treks back to reality, I caught sight of the beginning of Sam's morning routine. His person was a graying biker with a handlebar mustache and a leather vest who apparently savored his morning back stretches and jumbo mug of propane-brewed coffee. He and Sam surveyed the early morning sky together, and then Sam rolled over on his back and did something I've only seen other golden retrievers do-- he began a vigorous and joyful bicycling motion with his back legs while whipping his head from side to side, making huge writhing dog commas in the prickly grass. Bliss.

And now, all too early, it's over and we're back in the tiny, tiny town. The semester's awkward decrescendo has begun, only to make room for the ensuing blare of Christmas' giant extended commercial, which almost succeeds every year in drowning out the melody of time off work with the family. It feels weird to have totally cheated the season in this far away corner of far-south Texas, bobbing on a glistening waxed board between temperate blue waves, slowly getting sunburned and looking forward to a night outside watching the stars with a beer in hand. Maybe that image alone will be enough to turn me into an R.V. person when I'm finally old enough and tired enough to really need and afford a few months in the sun.