RV parks are about as familiar to me as spooning with Angelina Jolie under high thread-count bed linens in the back of a $300 000 Fleetwood Revolution LE land yacht....not very.
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In 1999 I was the first mate on a sailboat that took me from Saint John to St.Andrews, and back. It was a glorious trip on the Bay of Fundy. We were sailing a salty Contessa 26, a fully equipped little yacht that could be counted on to get us there in safety and relative comfort.
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I have many wonderful recollections from that passage, but the one that really stuck in my pea-sized memory bank was the view of St.Andrews from the water. We had moored in a quiet little Deer Island cove which opened up to a sweeping view of Passamaquoddy Bay. On the horizon we could just barely make out the shape of the Algonquin Hotel, which pierced the rolling skyline with hard, unnatural angles. Something else caught my eye.
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Just to the right and below the Algonquin was something massive, white and glaring. It looked like snowbanks in July. Alien. Out of place. Offensive. From our Deer Island Cove, five miles distant, it was as though someone had built a low slung factory on the tip of St.Andrews. It had all the characteristics of an Irving owned industrial complex, without the giant I R V I N G letters emblazoned on its white-washed walls. I was baffled.
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When we finally weighed anchor and set sail for St.Andrews, the horrible vision in white began to take shape. It was a collection of oversized dice, scattered amongst a gravel gameboard. What I had seen across the miles of delicious blue green Passamaquoddy waters was the RVs and fifth wheels of the Kiwanis Oceanfront Campground...the ultimate pimple in a landscape of pleasant complexion.
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I would never blame anyone for staying in a campground...I've tented all over North America myself. I would never blame anyone for driving an RV, at least you know what your room is going to look like every night, which has it's merits if you've ever been unlucky enough to spend the night spooning with Angelina in a fleabag motel. The view from the Kiwanis Oceanfront Campground is worth millions if you sold the land to the oil rich. RVers must fill their Depends when they see the view from this particular park, it's quite stunning compared to what they're accustomed to seeing...trees, trees, trees.
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For all this backhanded praise, though, I just can't imagine driving an 8.9 litre, 400 horsepower diesel T-Rex of a motorhome (pictured above) into a gravel parking lot and feeling like a lucky soul. I went to the web site of the Fleetwood Motorhome company, because I'm curious, and was side-tracked, nearly tossing my scramble eggs with excitement, at the sight of the interiors of these rolling Versailles. I almost became converted. These RVs make my home look like something in which Bubbles wouldn't allow his kitties to litter train. Even with the comforts of a movie star's home on the inside, I'm still perplexed by the allure of the seemingly inhospitable landscape beyond the hydraulically lowered steps of the Revolution LE.
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I'm sure that I'm missing the point about RV parks. My guess is that the RV parks are full of interesting individuals....artists, poets, musicians, post mistresses, theorists, thrill seekers, and the gifted. I'm only speculating, of course. When I think of the kind of people who would enjoy spending time in a tin can, albeit a nicely appointed tin can with satellite tv, next to RV Harvey with his family of prolific farting children just ten feet away on one side, and the nosey Nincompoops (Ernie and Eunice) on the other, in a treeless gravel parking lot, next to a busy road...well, I just don't see myself sitting there in a plastic lawn chair under my RV's awning, drinking lite beer and reading Harlequin romances. I might be tempted to drink beer and write them, however.
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Press Release - Harlequin Romances are proud to announce another best-selling novel by noted smutmonger/author Ian Varty...Trailer Park Tryst is a story about moral collapse in a seaside RV Park. The main characters, Ernie and Eunice, are threatened when Sally Sluttery rolls into the park, putting her trailer directly in the flight path of Ernie's wandering eye. Trailer Park Tryst is a fictionalized story of the rising tides of passion found amidst the foggy banks of betrayal. Available in paperback October 2009.
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The sailboat that took me to Saint Andrews couldn't hold a candle to the luxury that's found inside these modern day motorhomes, but in many ways sailboats and motorhomes aren't all that different. The open ocean, the open highway...different strokes for different folks, I suppose, but somehow related. The nice thing about sailboats is that there's an inherent freedom that allows you to escape the masses in a way that an RV never could deliver. A sailboat at anchor needs swing room, thus negating the likelihood of having naughty, yachty Dottie living next door.
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I wanted to go up to the owners of the $300 000 Fleetwood Revolution LE to see what they were like, but I'm a chicken and I didn't want to ruffle their feathers so, after taking the picture, I drove away. I'll probably spend my life wondering, if not outright fantasizing, about trailer park people. The RV in my mind takes me to some pretty strange places...
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"Angelina, spooning with you is even better than I imagined."
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"Oh Ian, this is what I've always dreamed of too."
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"Just one thing, Angelina, would you mind telling Brad to stop hogging the high thread count sheets which, by the way, are fantastic. One other thing, Angelina, you and Brad are rich, so how come you're living in a motorhome in a gravel pit in St.Andrews?"
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"Don't worry your little mind, Ian, we'll talk about that in the morning. Let's just snuggle and enjoy the moment."
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