If you ever want to get outside yourself and just observe human nature, there’s no better place than an RV park. We take along our tent, a 35-year-old relic my dad bought on a whim when his marriage was bright and shiny and his understanding of my mother was surging toward its high water mark. To my memory we never used it.
I didn’t even know we had it, in fact, until my parents divorced and honored me with a explorer’s pass to the physical detrius of their marriage. It’s boxy and square and makes a lot of noise assembling the aluminum poles. I’m quite fond of it.