I wrote last year about my hate-hate relationship with camping. Paying money to live like a homeless person and live among the bugs where there’s no (or little) running water.
Sitting around a fire in the evening swatting at mosquitoes, the smoke blowing in your face and stinging your eyes. Waking up in the morning with your hair smelling like a forest fire.
Not my idea of a good time.
I’ve camped plenty of times. In a tent, in a camper, in a mini motorhome and in a cabin. They all suck.
I’ve said this before that if I had grown up in a concrete jungle, then hey, sure I’d love to venture into the woods and act out the whole woodsy, outdoorsy vibe for a few days. Probably would be a nice change.
But I grew up on a farm, in the middle of nowhere. In amongst the trees and fields. It was quiet. It was peaceful. We had to watch our water consumption so we didn’t have a hot shower every night. Our free time was mostly spent outdoors, running through paths in the bush, swatting at the insects buzzing around us.
So I didn’t grow up craving more of that. I grew up craving city life. Concrete sidewalks and streets. Old buildings and interesting architecture. Cafes and coffee shops. The sound of traffic, of sirens. The sounds of busyness and chaos.
I’m not saying I will absolutely never camp again, because I know kids love camping and I want to give Sid that experience, but if and when I do, it will be very comfortable. I’m not into roughing it but I can suck it up for a few days for Sid.
bloom.planted.north 
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