There was a time I was sure my holidays would include twenty-first floor, plush hotel rooms, clinking crystal glasses, Saks and Tiffany’s, white linen, azure water and yachts off the coast.
But, since being a slick, single city chick wasn’t in my cards, another kind of holiday eased into my delusions; cookouts, critters, damp pillows, stained beach chairs and smoke riddled hair.
It’s another world, this roughing it. Electricity vanished, flush toilets a distant memory, don’t even mention showers and forget about cell service. Packing up almost everything you own to go live in the forest could be considered a tad indicative of on setting insanity. It could be perceived as an adventure one could do without. Weak at heart beware. Material girls stay home. Roughing it is, no doubt, rough.
Everything we do here is ten times the work it is at home; the dishes are dirtier after we wash them, we’ve been wearing the same shorts for a week, our legs are coated in a semi-permanent sheath of sunscreen and dust.
But then voices echo in the trees, laughter ascends into the balloon blue sky, fast-moving spokes whir past, an icy beer meets a fiery sunset and that one marshmallow gets toasted to crisp yet gooey perfection.
Friends have bonded, kids have played, the old-fashioned get dirty kinda play, the stars have aligned symbolically and physically and there’s nothing but time to appreciate every little gratuity.
It is another world; a tousled, less embellished one than we’re used to, but one that allows a cider while flipping flapjacks, an all day read and a whole lot of not being perfect and I’ll be honest, it fills you up, like a red Solo cup…so join the party.