I’m a city gal. Always have been. Probably always will be. Born that way. At ten years old I asked my parents if we could move to an apartment downtown. At the time we only lived about a ten or fifteen minute drive from the centre of the city, but to me it seemed like we lived in the middle of nowhere. I hated it. Well, that’s a very strong word.
I didn’t hate it. I just longed for the excitement of the city. The rhythm. The pulse. The energy. There was always something going on. Constant movement. And I felt it. I responded to it. It made me feel alive, even as a child.
When I was nine years old, my parents sent me to summer camp. Sleep-away. It was fine. I had a good time, except for the two overnight camping trips we took. Definitely not my cup of tea. I was NOT one with nature. Gathering wood for the fire was a pain — literally. I stumbled and dropped a whole load on my foot.
Wasn’t crazy about the smell of damp earth. Smelled mouldy to me. Dank. Funky. The food we cooked all tasted of dirt. Or at least I thought so. I could not get comfortable sleeping on the ground. And when morning came, I was far from pleased to see I’d been sharing my sleeping bag with a skunk. Thank God I hadn’t been sprayed. Continue reading