Would you like brown, brown, brown, or umber?

Neither I nor Allen really wants an RV*. Well, not really really. But we do, as a matter of recreation, make a point of noticing the many varieties of them which are on the small side. And wondering just how small can you go to achieve the perfect overlap of towability and comfort. (*In actuality, he may--in a sense--want one of everything.)

So this weekend, for a Sunday of entertainment, we headed north to the Timonium fairgrounds to see the RV Super Sale. This is a gathering of multiple Maryland dealers, and the vehicles on offer were packed in like cattle in a feed lot. 

We found a few of the small sort that we admire--specifically a couple of T@Bs, such as the one pictured here. 

Very cute, very efficient. With a trailer such as this, you could do everything from sleep to make a pancake. It all depends on what you want out of life. And of special note: These little campers are not brown. Inside or outside. 

The reason this un-brownness is notable is that everything else, and I mean everything, had an interior design scheme based on the following shades: brown, mud, dirt, and dog hair (provided the dog is brown.) I assume they did market research on this, and ascertained that the sort of people who enjoy camping in a climate controlled luxury hotel suite (with full kitchen) on wheels, also favor brown. Brown cabinetry, brown carpet, brown fake lightweight tile, brown bed coverings, and upholstery where abstract patterns in brown frolic fetchingly in a field of brown.

A saleslady was hiding in one of the giant RVs, and we unwittingly stumbled upon her. “Isn’t this a great interior?” she gushed. “I especially love the color scheme in this one.” Yes, it was brown. I could see why she loved it.

So on and off we climbed, into and out of vehicles which ran the gamut from $10,000 to a couple-hundred grand in price. And this is what I learned about what people nowadays want in their recreational vehicles:

They want: master bedrooms up a few steps from the rest of the vehicle, with a private entrance into a bathroom featuring a walk-in shower, potty, and sink. (Although, in many cases, they also want a secondary exit door located such that whoever’s poised on the head could--if he wished--enjoy a full frontal view of the neighbor’s exterior auxiliary kitchen. As they were enjoying a similar view of him.)

They want kitchens with islands and Corian countertops. They want theater-style seating across from a flat-screen tv. They would like, if you don’t mind, a gas fireplace just below the tv screen. They would really, really like an entire other third of the vehicle subdivided into a room for the kids, with its own tv and mini-fridge, sofas that convert to sleepers with pull-down bunks above. And the exterior auxiliary kitchen I alluded to involves a flip-up panel to expose your outside kitchenette, just in case you do not--for some reason--relish the thought of climbing back into your “Big Sierra Sasquatch” to grab a beer.

I can only imagine the fun people must have keeping up with an ever-rotating series of Joneses. 

As for us...there weren’t enough campers of a modest size to fuel our acquisitive sides. It will have to keep being one of those things we look at just for fun. Just as well. 

tree

What usually happens, during acupuncture, is I drift off into a place that’s a little better than sleep, because there’s a certain amount of awareness.

I’m sure it’s planned that way. I’m on a comfy massage table, pillows propped just so. Tiny needles, placed to energize the right meridians are twangling painlessly in my dermis. The lights are dimmed, and fairyland music plays softly while a hint of fragrant oils infuses the room. So, once the thoughts of the moment play their way through my frontal cortex, some other brain zone takes over, filling my head with nondescript imagery...sometimes like a subtle form of the Northern Lights.

On Wednesday morning, after asking Sara to work on my Achilles tendinitis, I had a vision of a very large tree. It was an evergreen, conical like a Christmas tree, but with rounded contours and softer cypress needles...and huge. It towered, many stories high, at the crest of a hill up which I’d hiked.

The tree was not perfect. Somewhere, at a point roughly two-thirds of its height, the trunk had diverged into two. The trunk section facing me was bare. Devoid of  branches and foliage, it was nubbed off at the top, and polished smooth with age. Patches of its bareness showed through the tree at many elevations. Behind it, the second trunk was full of branches, and it extended them lushly as if embracing the brittle, empty trunk next to it, giving the tree--though asymmetrically patchy--an overall effect of wholeness.