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The Camper in Me

When I was a kid, my family took long trips in the car as our vacations. My father took it seriously and by the time I was 11, he had purchased a small red and white camper that sat on top of one of the very first crew cabs I had ever seen. In that rig, we traveled the US and Canada coast to coast. I shared a big foam mattress with my sisters that extended above the truck’s double cab. It had about 8 inches of headroom, something we considered cozy, not claustrophobic. My parents turned the kitchen table into their bed and if ever a friend came along, they slept on a beach lounge in the aisle. We were allocated one cupboard each for two months worth of belongings. It had a miniature kitchen sink and stove and a shower above the toilet.



Not actually dressed for camping.




When I think back, I probably got my wanderlust (and minimalism) from those experiences. I had no idea at the time, where in the world my travels would take me. It started with Bermuda, the Bahamas, Aruba, France, Italy, Iceland, Australia. I made numerous visits to Israel and three years ago, began a romance with South Africa.

I attribute my opportunities for adventure to my daughters, both having chosen to live abroad. I might have been drawn to other destinations for vacations but maternal instinct demands a different itinerary. Add in the pull of grandchildren and the math becomes obvious.

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