Become a Super Happy Camper

It's summer, and summer is a time to go CAMPING—at least four times, according to my husband.  As a kid who mostly preferred reading on the glider to any other outdoor activity and an adult whose idea of a good time is trolling garage sales and making lists in coffeeshops, spending a quarter of my summer (or something like that) in the woods has taken some getting used to. I do it because Jon has brainwashed our kids into loving camping, and if they're going to be tenting it up all of those weekends, I will tag along. I also do it because Jon mostly plans camping excursions with a giant posse of people I REALLY like, which sort of spins the whole situation into a party I don't want to miss.

So now I camp. Four times a summer. Which makes me an an expert camper of a sort—the sort who doesn't really do any of the set-up but comes along and has a good time. I've learned a lot along the way. And I like to share. Here are my secrets:

Stick to the packing list.

The one you saved on your iPhone—the little "I've got your back" post from the past. The one that looks super personal because it mentions your favorite hat (which you bought for $38 four years ago to bribe yourself into happy camping) but can't really be because it mentions RAIN PANTS. Which you most definitely do not own. Or maybe you do. What are they? "Booties"... ??? Anyway, you probably will be OK if you stick to this list, or any list, and you do not unpack half the things when the Doppler radar and your dad-in-law who's visiting result in your leaving a day later than planned.

Upshot: that "shoes suited to the terrain" bit on your legacy list: SUPER important. But if you're going to forget all terrain-suited shoes, make sure your posse includes a friend who literally gives you the flip-flops off her feet and a 10-year-old who lends you his hikers so you can hoof it to the cool beach with his mom. PPS: As it turns out, you actually probably don't need that beanie or those mittens in late June. Or the leg warmers, really.

Know what you're getting into.

Are you staying for two days? Three? Are there things to keep your kids and your brain busy? Where will you get your coffee? Will you be driving in (and can escape at any moment)—or do you need to boat to an island where you'll stay until morning even if it there's a lightning storm? Maybe you'll be canoeing to that island with two bikes, a cot, a tent, a cooler (but not terrain-suited shoes), your two children paddling alongside in kayaks. Just know. And go. KNOW. AND GO. 

Find your happy place.

When you find yourself in an uncomfortable place, find a positive perspective. Literally. Look at a pretty flower. Or a cloud. If maybe you're in a canoe with allll the things, ask for the seat that faces the gentle waves and your strong, brave children, not the one behind the pile of bikes and things that, at any moment, might topple out of the boat and tip everything else. 

Don't forget sunscreen. 

And by don't forget, I mean to APPLY. Vitamin D, shmitamin me. And I have olive skin too. Outdoor adventures require adequate protection. Even if you're just chasing two kids on kayaks who paddled away. You may decide you want to circle the whole island. If you do that with naked thighs, believe you me, you're going to be sorry.

Eat good food, drink good coffee. 

If you're a reluctant camper, a propane grill and a coffee press will change your life. If you're feeding kids—or impatient adults—heating up ready-to-go foods is a fine idea. If camping isn't camping without your cooking famous smoky meat sauce from scratch and boiling pasta over the fire, you're not a reluctant camper. For those friends who are, bring snacks. 

Soak up the scenery.

Basking in the beauty of nature is the reason you go camping. So watch every minute of that sunset. Wake up early and gaze out over the water. Take pictures, too, so next time, when you feel that anxiety rising, you can look at the pictures, get super psyched, grab your fancy Happy Camper hat—and your Tevas or hikers or at least flip-flops—and head for the woods, happily. (Or willingly—and be be super happy you did.)

Terminal Illness (Airport Kind)

Day traveling again, and it's sparked many observations and questions. Too many to note here, on my phone in the United Express terminal at Newark (Delta a LGA, with its free wifi and comfy seating, would accommodate a longer post).

The area surrounding the BTV airport is lush and green, sparsely populated and beautiful; the area surrounding Newark is not.

Many, many men wearing crisp business suits and carrying conservative business-y bags wear casual packs on their backs (a la Jansport). Tell me business-men-friends: what's in there? Gym clothes and razors? Toothpaste? How does this work?

There is a dearth of acceptable eateries in my Newark Airport terminal. But I am hungry and I order a Greek chicken salad. A waiter serves it to me at a table, where the flatware is plastic. He kindly whispers that I might consider ordering my coffee elsewhere. (Later, I hear another waiter nicely telling a couple who's been staring at the menu situation by the hostess station that, if they have time, they can shuttle to another terminal where there's better stuff to eat.) I dig this honesty.

As I eat my salad, I observe many fellow travelers looking for dinner, hopelessly circling. Those who look most health concerned appear to bypass a proper meal altogether, settling on yogurt. Or fruit. Or coffee and water.

I get a coffee too—from next door, like the server suggested. It is not good but it is hot and caffeinated. I am happy.

5 minute

Day Tripper

I woke up before dawn and struggled with what to wear for the full-work-team day trip to visit a client. Settled on the standard black pants. We were driving–all of us, in a rented mini-van—so I didn't feel quite so rushed. If I was a few minutes late, they'd wait. But I wasn't. I was 20 minutes early and didn't need to deal with security. So I walked around the mostly empty halls noticing, with slight envy, the people who looked packed for vacation. I got myself a Skinny Pancake egg sandwich and a coffee and I parked it on a bench. We drove to Boston, talked shop and not-shop, got carsick looking at screens. We met with one client, and then the next, and I left both meetings head spinning with possibilities. We piled back into the champagne caravan, plus two—they'd flown in from New York and were hitching a ride back. More shop talk, not-shop talk and discussion about whether to dine sitting at a table or in the minivan. What about a state-line liquor-store stop? Negotiation ensued. An agreement was made: liquor store, sit-down dinner. We left one, then the other, enriched. We hit the road for home. Tomorrow will be more typical. I am exhausted—and totally invigorated.

Glitter Will Earn You a Pat Down

I have some helpful travel insights to share:

Glitter will earn you a patdown.
Apparently the cozy sweater I changed into for the flight home was littered with glitter. Perhaps you’re imagine some shiny bedazzled duds? Nope. Subtle. So subtle I didn't notice till I got the no-go from the scan machine and quick pat-down from a super nice security officer woman who noticed the glitter right off. Later while lunching in the terminal, I noticed a woman wearing a long-sleeved shirt made of sequins. I wondered whether her screening demanded a call to airport security. 

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If you want your kids to answer your call…

Order something from Amazon to arrive while you're away. When traveling without my kids, I normally call before their bedtime but the conversation is always a little disappointing. I can't tell which boy is talking and, typically, neither one is all that into chatting (typically I'm trying to connect right when shit is hitting the fan at home). I just end up feeling sad. Last night, we couldn't get the timing right so I phoned this morning, at 6:45 am. The kids were thrilled to hear from me—and I quickly learned why: a package arrived, from Amazon, and they wanted to know if they could open it.

Noooooooo,

I thought and started to panic that I'd clicked too fast and kid-gifts were coming here, instead of going to my secret storage, at Ri's. I quickly logged in and realized that the package was actually the LifeFactory sip top for Ri. I'd also meant to sent this to her house but it was A-OK to open... phew. The boys didn't care who the package was for—they just wanted to open it. And I let them. Via Facetime. I was a hero. 

So, to recap—and to rephrase: 1) during this glitzy holiday season, pack the glitter; dress plain if you're riding on a plane and 2) go ahead and send the right package to the wrong address; it might have a unexpected silver lining benefit. 

I Can Imagine Lovingkindness

I’ve been navel-gazing.

It started with a yoga/movement/writing/visioning retreat that was to be an early birthday present to myself. I really have no words to describe this experience. But if I did I probably wouldn’t share them here. And, in fact, sharing words at all was verboten for the second half of this two-day workshop. Which wasn’t easy for me.

I talk. I question. I prompt. Incessantly. That’s why I became I journalist. That’s why I like mingling at parties full of people I barely know and why I often strike up conversations on playgrounds, in lines, airplanes. Or at least, I don’t shut them down.

But my yoga/writing workshop experience proved not only that being quiet has its benefits (which I know) but also that I was capable of staying silent and, if forced encouraged to keep my observations and opinions and inquiries to myself for a somewhat extended length of time, I might be rewarded with realizations. Important ones.  After all, that’s what happened at the transformative (there’s a word but it’s an insufficient one so it doesn’t count) yoga/writing workshop.

Maybe I won’t be rewarded with profound realizations. Maybe, in these moments of quiet, I’ll just come up with stories, fictional shorts that serve to entertain me—and in some cases even inspire compassion, loving-kindness.

Here’s the thing: I’ve been traveling a lot in the last week. Uncharacteristically, solo. No kids. No Jon. Just me. And, to strangers, I’ve remained mostly silent. Which, as it turns out, that makes me more observant.  And imaginative.

As an eavesdropping voyeur, it’s been fascinating to listen to the dynamics of couples in stressful travel situations—mostly caused by snow and sleet but in one case, by a passport-verifying machine that forced one half of a two-person family unit to back down, cancel out and join her other half, two spots down, in finishing his half-completed customs declaration screen.

She. Was. Pissed.

Her wrath was directed at Brian—that was his name—but we all got to hear it too. Brian and his domestic partner continued bickering. Like children. Did Jon and I sound like this? In public? I thought back to the man sitting in the Burlington terminal a few days earlier: so optimistically relating his (unfortunate) travel situation to the woman on the other end, the one who kept asking the same questions over and over again, in a kind yet-totally-annoying way. (Amazing as it may seem, I was eavesdropping on BOTH sides of this telephone conversation.) He seemed to be so happy to keep repeating his answers. I marveled at their considerate conversation—it seemed so nice.  Again, I wondered: where were Jon and I this Brian-and-his-angry wife/remarkably-kind-couple spectrum.

Twenty minutes later I came across a 50-something woman with strewn-about suitcases, bright makeup and big hair. She was in the process of combing her hot-rolled tresses in wide strokes while a growing line of stall-exiters waited in line to wash their hands.

Who is this woman and why is she hogging up the counter with her vain primping?

And – ew, gross – surely those strands are going to land all over the sinks. Then the story started forming… she was off to meet a guy she’d fallen in love with online. For the first time. Of course she wanted to look nice. Now I was rooting for her.

And then, tonight, just minutes after takeoff, the guy in 15D slumps over, his sleepy head falling over the invisible line dividing his side from mine and starts snoring. I feel an almost irrepressible urge to poke him. I want to tell him to SHUT UP. But my mind starts reeling: he’s a very anxious flyer. He’s medicated to get through. I pull out my iPhone and the headphones I’m grateful to have remembered and I start listening to “Marathon2012”—one of the few playlists I’ve synced to this device. When I tire of that, I turn to “Relaxing,” which consists of one 7:45 minute song that was supposed to be the soundtrack to Kai’s birth—till I requested that the doula switch to a running mix. The 15D Dude’s snorts sound over the ambient chimes. I feel twitchy. I want out of this seat. I remember how 15D slammed down our shared armrest and occupied all of it without even asking. Surely, he’s just a big jerk. I have no feelings of loving-kindness toward this character in the next seat. 

Maybe I should wake him up and ask him where he’s going? Did he have any delays? Did he wake up at the crack of dawn and that’s why he’s so sleepy and must snore so close to my shoulder.  I wonder. Maybe I should ask. But he's sleeping so I don't. I just sit and wonder.