In which our intrepid hero continues to clear tabs.
Mim K/W was nice enough to forward me a story from the Sydney Morning Herald on the phenomenon known as glamping:
It’s a newer concept and, like camping, involves wilderness and “tents” (in a broad sense of the word). But there the similarities end.
Glamping is about exploring your positive feelings about nature at the same time as your fondness for linen napkins and turn-down services. You can indulge your inner Toad of Toad Hall and get some fresh air. Stoicism be damned.
Aha. Of course, there’s already a place where you can enjoy the view and still have your meals cooked for you and enjoy all the luxuries of maid service. They even have telephones and sometimes Internet access.
It’s called a hotel.
Now, I’m not a huge fan of the great outdoors; I tend to wilt during the summer months when not within four feet of a fan or air-conditioner. Still, I can appreciate that half the enjoyment of camping is in overcoming privation.
The first day or so of being eaten alive by mosquitoes whilst crouching over a pit toilet aren’t much fun, but by then your body gets used to the bacteria found in poorly-cooked spaghetti jaffles and you don’t have to spend as much time with your butt hanging out and luring mosquitoes anyway.
After a while, you begin to appreciate living by your wits, dodging bears and snakes alike through pure cunning. (Not that there are many wild bears in Australia, mind you, but the snakes are more than deadly enough to make up for them.)
Like the proverbial “soccer moms” in their gleaming four-wheel-drives, glamping egregiously discards the point in favour of comfort.
Were I a Leninist, I’d probably bandy about phrases like “bourgeois abomination”. Thankfully, I’m not; nonetheless, if you’re going to regale your cocktail-party guests with tales of the great outdoors, at least have the balls to experience it in its full splendour.