I have spent the last week in a small cabin that is slowly being devoured by carpenter bees. It has a small porch that looks out over big open space. Away to the right is a play area with a small zip line.
Kids zip back and forth at all times of the day. At night I see bright fluorescent ankle bracelets levitating across the fields to the sound of squeals of delight and the thunk of another journey completed.
This is my summer vacation. A week in a camp site in the Appalachian mountains a couple of hours west of Washington, DC.
Just beyond the zip line is the water park. Three pools, a couple of slides and lots of sunburnt campers clutching giant Stanley cups filled with ice. Between the zip line and the water park is a road where the site’s mascot – Yogi Bear, trapped in perpetual 1960s optimism, circles every couple of hours in a golf cart, waving at campers who may or may not care for classic American entertainment.
Camp sites are also not spared the excess of American suburbia. The most common sight is a comically large trailer hitched to a shiny pickup truck. I guess they call the trailers RVs here. The RVs always have impressive decals – “Marauder”, “Wayfarer”, and so on.
The RV sites have hook ups for water, power and sewage lines. Deploy the retractable sunshade, fire up the portable gas grill and the pop up tent and relax out in what is effectively a parking lot – with a view, if you paid enough to get a premium spot.
Americans love parking lots.
We are in a valley close to the famous Skyline drive. Around us are rolling hills covered in dense forest. The drive here involved some gloriously twisty roads and made me miss my motorcycles. We are content spending the days going to the pool, the playground and the odd adventure a little further out. Yesterday it was a small hike and then a visit to a brewery a couple of miles away.
When they have had enough of the pool, and when the relentless Virginia sun makes the playground a non-viable option, the girls demand stories.
I tell them versions of Greek mythology – stories of Medusa, Centaurs, Cyclops and the Sirens. I try and intersperse these stories with those from Indian mythology. Krishna dancing on the snake, the avatar of Vishnu covering the earth and heaven in three steps.
We also make up stories, of dragons and unicorns, and princesses and witches.
The five year old listens and asks questions and the three year old is mainly bemused. Though she wants to make sure that the dragon is pink. They demand spooky stories but are satisfied with ancient tales of somewhat dubious morality.
All these stories – ones I devoured as a kid now make me wonder. They are about creatures doing their own thing, guarding caves, singing, swimming in rivers – minding their own business before humans show up to disturb the peace and assert their dominance.
Odysseus playing tricks on the Cyclops to steal his treasure, Krishna annoying the snake by dancing on its head and forcing it to leave the river.
The stories may be thousands of years old but they endure, just like human nature. Here we are – clearing out an ancient forest to build a glorified car park.
The girls couldn’t care less for moral ambivalence. They are enjoying themselves – turning a deep shade of almond as their Indian genes give them a helping hand with the Virginia summer. The dog is chasing lantern flies and I am here on the porch listening to the cicadas and tree frogs and the drone of the air conditioning unit behind me.