I Love Not Camping
Growing up, I think we went camping once. I was little and remember hardly anything except the campfire. When I was 5, we embarked on a 10 year-long annual tradition attending a family camp in “cabins” made of wood with tent roofs called Lair of the Bear. Although there were actual cots where we stretched out our sleeping bags, the communal bathrooms and showers were still a long, dusty walk away.
I was scarred for life, and realized that camping sucks.
As an adult I quickly realized that camping is not for me – I’m far more comfortable in a comfy feather bed with Frette linens, room service just a quick buzz away. I like little bottles of shampoo and clean, white towels served up in the privacy of my very own bathroom. I like hotels.
Like this for example – the lovely and historic Claremont Hotel, a Fairmont Hotel in the Berkeley Hills. My kind of camping.
Not even the glamorous draw of the over-hyped “glamping” trend can lure me – it’s still camping, and camping sucks, remember? I don’t care how well designed that tent may be, the shared bathroom and shower are still down a dusty path that has been trodden by strangers’ feet. A chandelier, a bearskin rug, and some swagged curtains blowing in the wind can make a great Instagram post, but that doesn’t change their location out in the woods with no indoor plumbing. Nope.
Perhaps to experience the great outdoors, next time I’m in a hotel I’ll spice things up and sleep with the window open.