Truth be told, I’m not a likely candidate for the nomad’s life. I’m shy and not overly friendly to strangers. That’s a joy killer when all you have in your local vicinity is strangers. Of course, there will be times when I am near family and friends, and indeed that is whole goal here. But living in campgrounds and RV parks for a few weeks at a time does put one into close contact with folks one does not know.
I thought living in New Orleans would solve my problem. I recall walking down the street when I was new there and noticing that just about every person I passed made eye contact and acknowledged my existence. And I learned to do the same with them. In the French Quarter, you can tell who is a tourist when they don’t make eye contact. They don’t know anything about it. When you are at a music festival in New Orleans, those around you become your instant family and you share drinks and food and stories. When I took a trip back to California, I walked down the main street where I used to live and an entire family passed me on the street without even one of them making eye contact with me. I call still feel that stab of loneliness. I thought I would have to live in the Deep South or die of separation.
But now I’ve left New Orleans for different adventures, and I’ve also left easy connection and camaraderie. I’m just one state away from my goal of California, and I feel myself retreating. It’s especially painful somehow to see all the families playing together, laughing together, building memories.
I was feeling an emptiness this morning in my new campground, where I plan to spend the work week. Here only a few hours, I was having very negative feelings about everyone around me. It wasn’t anything specific, just a vague dislike of every soul here. What a horrible mental place to be in.
As I pondered my situation, I recalled a strategy I used a while back in an airport when I found myself feeling the same negativity. I think I invented this, but who knows? I decided to look at everyone passing by and figure out something they were proud of that day. I looked at an older man with a whole bunch of hair, and I thought he must be proud of that. I saw a young woman with some amazing shoes. And I thought she must be proud of that. One after another, in quick succession as dozens or hundreds of people passed by, I called out in my mind what they might be proud of.
That strategy served me well this morning. I was feeling negative toward the family staying in the next camp. They very carefully avoided making eye contact. But I looked at the older man, who had a bunch of hair, and thought he must be proud. I had a little fantasy where I would ask him if that was his own hair, even if I knew it was, to make him feel even more proud. I looked at the older woman, and I thought she might be proud that her family was on a trip together. I observed the younger man with a sloppy look and mismatched clothes. I thought he might be proud that he didn’t give a flying f— what anyone thought of how he looked.
As I did my exercise, I started to feel friendly toward all around me. So when I went to do my dishes around the side of my The Tiny, and saw the single man with his off-road trailer/tent rig, I felt open enough to say to him: “Hey, nice rig.” That’s how you approach someone in a campground. You compliment their rig. You figure out what they’re proud of.
His name is Oscar and he’s from around these parts, likely a native, and is very proud of his rig. He researched and considered a T@B and other options, and finally settled on his extreme off-road get-up, which cost him $15,000. He pulled out the kitchen and showed me the various awnings. He’s got solar and extra propane. I invited him over to check out the T@B. He saw me take off my sandals at the entrance to my awning area, and he did the same. He wondered if it felt claustrophobic in The Tiny, so I invited him to step up and go in. He thought it felt so warm and welcoming and homey. Oscar had to give up his campsite for another family, so he packed up and headed off. He gave me his card in case I wanted to camp sometime.
I’m proud of myself for talking with Oscar. I realized it’s easier to talk with solo campers or those on the trail by themselves, rather than talking to a couple or a family.
To further stave off my alone feelings, I contacted a few people in my spiritual group. I listened to some spiritual stuff. I meditated and journaled and sent a weekly report to my clients. I sent photo texts to some loved ones. I talked to the clerk at Whole Foods and joked that chickpeas seem to have usurped soy nuts as a healthy snack. And I took my doggie to the dog park, and talked a little with others there.
I’m cooking my dinner now and will probably go to bed early, as is my habit. But sitting here under the awning, barefooted on the rug, my dog resting after dinner and her bone, I think I’ll do more of my “What are they proud of” exercise. A couple just walked by who looked fit and slender. They’re probably proud of that. The mother with the three happy kids, one perched on her shoulders, is likely proud of how she’s raising those kids. An older man with a limp and a curled up hand might have had a stroke and is proud of how well he’s walking.
It’s not that I’m feeling lonely and negative right now. But perhaps if I continue my practice, I can prevent those feelings in the future. And I’m proud of myself for that, too.
P.S. The girl and I took our evening constitutional around the campground. I talked with folks. I admired the big rigs, and the vintage campers, and the many folks crammed into campsites and campers. I heard the clang of horseshoes way past dark, and the counting of points. I saw what folks were watching on their TVs, and heard kids elated around a campfire. The patriarch of the family who moved in next door made a point of saying hi to me. Some people just get it. A campground really is a happy place, and if I’m in the right mindset, I can be happy too.