So this weekend we went glamping. Not camping—glamping.
Glamping is glamorous camping. I’d never heard of this term before we arrived at the Connecticut campsite. En route, I envisioned woods, trees, maybe a river, a fire pit, lots and lots of dirt. I’ve camped, oh, 10 times in my life, and generally speaking—on a scale of 1 to 10—I’m a 5. I dig the outdoors, I hate communal outdoor showers, I love open fires, I hate smelling like open fires. So … a 5.
Hence, as we approached I was thinking, “Make the best of it … make the best of it.”
Then we pulled up—and glamping began.
In glamping, there’s little struggle. We were surrounded by plots with motorhomes. Big, huge, enormous, gigantic motorhomes with Shamu-sized generators and two-, three- bathrooms per unit. People cooked out if they wanted to … but they didn’t have to. Their units had stoves. Ovens. Microwaves.
We, on the other hand, had a tent. I slept on the ground, back killing. We roasted on an open fire, cooked hotdogs and chicken and vegetables and the like. Really, we tried combining the positives of glamping (running water tap, nearby store and beach, paved circular bike trail) with the traditions of camping (smelling like a fire, s’mores, etc).
In the end—not bad.
But I smell like a fire.
