November 8, 2009 – Crossing the Mason-Dixon Line into Washington, DC

Are you a neophyte camper? Never owned your own trailer? Never thrown caution to the wind and simply headed south for the nearest campground, unconcerned about whether dusk will settle into dark before you bunk down? Oh, what you are missing.

Late afternoons of heated discussion over the veracity of a GPS’s directions before turning uncertainly into the “World’s Famous” Dixie Caverns RV Retreat, located centrally to “Foam Henge” and the eastern-most genuine wax museum of southwest North Carolina. Enchanted evenings spent gazing lovingly into the eyes of your spouse, the only person you have interacted with – other than the gap-toothed Wal-Mart greeter in Lynchburg, Virginia – since you left the frozen north. It simply doesn’t get any better.

New lifetime social lows have been achieved. Shopping for thermal socks and a mini cheese grater at 7:45 am in a 24 hour Wal-Mart Supercentre in Roanoke. Hanging out at the trailer park laundromat, engaged in stimulating conversation with the local ladies about the ungodly number of quarters required to watch your gaunch tumble. Breakfast hotdogs in the microwave. We are indeed living the dream life.

Before we left home lots of folks offered us earnest advice on things we “simply had to have” as part of our camping paraphernalia. Some of those “must haves” have been lifesavers… but I’m having a hell of a time every morning re-packing the full-size salon-style hair dryer. And the bellows is a real bitch too.

Americans are a justifiably proud people but are often ridiculed for their patriotism. Visiting the Washington, DC Smithsonian museums makes the hair stand up on the back of the neck of even the most cynical of Canadians. Within touch are the actual aircraft and spacecraft in which such historical figures as the Wright brothers, Charles Lindbergh and Neil Armstrong flew. Heady stuff for a guy who as a kid was destined for a career with NASA had it not been for a difficult case of acne.

Halloween in Washington is an experience. Thousands of ghouls and goblins – and the odd full-breasted wench – haunting the subways and sidewalks, all rushing hurriedly in different directions on their way to God knows where. But a DCite can make even a werewolf look important.

We’re now just a day’s drive from the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina. If I put my ear to the ground I can just hear a banjo being plucked.

Gerry and Florence