There's No Place Like Home

All right, it’s June, the sun is finally making an appearance, and the kids are almost out
of school. Time for the year’s first camping trip, a foray into the wilderness, a getaway, if you will. You made the reservations six months ago, in the bleak darkness of winter, and the date has at last arrived. Excitement builds as you pull out the equipment, shake out the sleeping bags, and gas up the car. You’ve duly prepped—shopping for gourmet goodies, checking the first aid kit and flashlight batteries, and making sure the margarita mix is stowed safely, right?

So far, so good. Twisting your way up the coastline, you pass your kid another a book, stop to pee and get a root beer float. With your estimated time of arrival holding at just under another half an hour, everyone is feeling sunny and pleasantly expectant. Finally, the wind-worn entrance sign looms ahead and you turn off the road, check in, pick your spot, and kill the engine.

You made it. Now the fun starts. Struggling against coastal winds, you erect the tent, hammering the stakes into the dry, clotted earth with a rock and swearing as the rain fly gusts up and flaps away several times before you can secure it. You pull the cooler out, discover that its spigot hasn’t quite closed, and ice water has pooled in the back of your new Ford Escape Hybrid. Never mind, you’re here. Cracking the cap off your first beer, you take a long pull before bending down to examine the cut on the bottom of your kid’s foot. It seems that, while running barefoot through the campsite—a practice you have encouraged in order to promote a sense of “wilderness wonder”—she has stepped on somebody’s discarded beer cap and now stands stoically, hand on your shoulder, as you clean in with a baby wipe and cover it neatly with a Hello Kitty band-aid.

Still, life is good, you tell yourself later that evening, as you try to cut apples with a plastic butter knife and realize that you brought graham crackers and chocolate but forgot the marshmallows. Soldier on, you tell yourself, as you scour the underbrush for kindling and discover the brush you’re under is actually poison oak. This is the life, you say, as you perch on a log beneath the stars, bundled in down, fire smoke stinging your eyes and mosquito song playing in your ear. 

And the next morning, hip sore from six hours atop a lump of sea grass, you hobble over to the communal restroom and wait patiently in line as a growing sense of urgency and discomfort builds. Never mind all this, you think, a few minutes later, breaking down camp and repacking the car, we had “an experience,” we got away from the city and all that urban hassle. 

Shortly thereafter, eyes drooping against the late afternoon light and rocked into cozy sleep by the rhythm of highway driving, you catch yourself contemplating the return to Berkeley, the joys of domestic comfort—light, heat, hot water, a private potty—and you realize, there’s no place like home.