RV Family Vacation
Thu Jun 25, 2009
Author: Rob Buchanan
Source: www.cookiemag.com
ack in the 1970s, in Northern California, the recreational vehicle of choice was a Volkswagen Bus. My parents had a beige one and our neighbors had a blue one with a big flower on the front, and for several weeks each summer, our two families would car-camp all over the West. When the Winnebago—one of America's first low-cost, mass-marketed motor homes—came along, we kids couldn't believe it. What kind of dorks, we chortled, would go camping in something the size of a blimp?
With age comes wisdom, of course—or maybe just a certain amount of dorkdom. And then, too, I married an Italian, someone with the kind of unabashed appreciation for Americana that only the foreign-born can muster. Which I guess explains how the four of us—my wife, Noemi; my 16-year-old stepson, Bruno; my 6-year-old daughter, Claire; and I—wound up in Los Angeles this spring, looking to rent a state-of-the-art RV.
Our plan was to spend a week cruising around the California desert, seeing some of the country's great natural wonders—Joshua Tree, Death Valley, the eastern Sierra. Beyond that, I think we were all a little curious about the RV experience. Would it be fun or cheesy? Would we get along in the close quarters or be at one another's throats by trip's end?
The RV dealership had row after row of shiny vehicles for rent. We ended up choosing a snazzy navy blue Fleetwood Fiesta, 34 feet long—about 20 feet longer than anything I'd ever driven before. When we pulled on the door latch, a set of metal steps magically whirred out from under the chassis. Claire climbed aboard, did a little dance, and then rushed to claim the top bunk bed. Noemi, who works as a set designer, immediately started unpacking the fluffy duvet and housewares she'd brought to make the RV feel more like home. (See her packing list, on page 107.) Bruno sank deeper into his hoodie. "Are we seriously doing this?" he asked. "I could be home in a real living room, watching the NCAAs."
The rental agent gave an alarmingly brief explanation of the Fiesta's myriad gadgets and control panels, then bid us bon voyage. I turned the key and pulled gingerly out of the parking lot. A minute later, we were roaring along on I-5 in five lanes of traffic (but, amazingly, not taking up five lanes of traffic). It sounds scary, but the truth is RVs—even class-A monsters like ours—aren't hard to drive. Think of a big, jouncy golf cart.
Setting up house that night, at a funky RV park in Desert Hot Springs, was a matter of pushing three buttons: The first lowered four jacks to the ground and automatically leveled the RV. The second and third activated the "slideouts," pop-out panels that dramatically increase the width of the main salon and the master bedroom in back. It was like a childhood dream, watching the "house" magically expand, and for the rest of the trip, all four of us vied for the privilege of being chief button pusher.
We liked all of the RV parks we stayed in. Aside from providing multiple hookups—electricity, water, sewer, cable TV, and usually wireless—they offered a pleasant amount of social exchange, often centered around the pool or the Jacuzzi. At Mammoth Mountain, after a day of spring skiing, we hot-tubbed with a merry band of British soldiers who'd rented an RV for a week of R&R. Later we were all joined by a father of three, who explained why he'd spent $100,000 on a vehicle that he only used two or three times a year: "because, more than anything, it really, really brings us together." (I'll also remember Mammoth because it was there that I faced, and eventually overcame, the greatest of all RV challenges: the clogged toilet.)
Still, our favorite campsite was not in an RV park, but in the uncrowded Mojave Preserve, where we just pulled over a few miles down a dirt road, next to some giant sand dunes. Bruno and I climbed the tallest of them at dusk—the first thing we'd done together in months—then hiked back in the dark, with the light in the living-room window of the RV as our beacon. In the morning, we awoke to find ourselves in perfect solitude, a big blue box in the desert.
In all, we covered exactly 1,399 miles in our week in the Fiesta, with me doing most of the driving in the hot middle part of the day by design. Claire and Bruno put in plenty of screen time (DVDs, laptops, iPods), but they also looked out the windows and, I think, got a sense of the incredible western landscape. At night, every time Bruno or Claire stirred in their sleep in the front bunks, Noemi and I felt it back in the master bedroom, their tiniest motions transferred and amplified by the vehicle's suspension. It was impossible not to feel linked, like a little tribe.
Our last stop was San Clemente State Beach, an hour south of Los Angeles. There was a different, more urban vibe there—fewer old people, more vehicles in each campsite, loud music. Coming back from the beach at sunset, Claire, Bruno, and I stumbled upon a riveting domestic drama playing out in the parking lot: a woman with a puppy yelling profanities and climbing into a truck, and a heavily tattooed man watching her from the steps of a trailer. "This is permanent!" he yelled back.
The three of us exchanged a look—this wasn't something that was going to happen to our tribe. Back at the Fiesta, we stepped inside for a last supper of pasta with Noemi's tomato sauce. Around the small table, lit by fluorescent light and surrounded by not-so-real wood paneling, it felt just the way a home should feel.
"What's the best thing about the RV?" Bruno asked his little sister as we rolled north on I-5 the next morning. He was still lying in bed, shooting Claire with a video camera as she perfected her cheerleading moves in the kitchen.
"Oh, yeah," she said, clapping out the beat. "Family ... together ... forever!"
Additional Information: http://www.haylettnorthcountry.com/index.php
