My RV and Me

The learning curve has been steep — and painful. Finally, after five years, I’m getting the hang of it.

The rig in situ at the city-owned Sherling Lake Park in Greenville, Ala.

GREENVILLE, Ala. — On arrival, the Beloved1 immediately puts her green, white, and blue pride-of-possession cover over the usually old, rough, dirty picnic table that comes with most RV sites. It’s a sweet ritual. Me, I head to the driver’s side to hook the rig to electricity, water, wastewater drain. This, while she deals with other inside sundry items we stowed for the drive.

This division of labor seems too old-school, gender-specific. Then again, it works for us. It’s become a ritual.

I’ve taken long trips by myself. Heavy labor. RVing is not an individual sport. Yet, we’ve met many a mature woman driving rigs alone. Strong, independent, brave.

The RV park here is tiny. Quiet. We only saw two people out and about. The big white propane tanks outside some of trailers gives witness to the full timers that live here. Many people opt for this life — tradesmen, traveling nurses, retirees. It’s affordable. See “Nomadland,” the Frances McDormand movie about dispossessed RVers. It’s true.

Our RV is sitting on a cul-de-sac site surrounded by towering trees with plush green crowns. Spring has given way to summer’s full bloom in this part of Alabama. It’s as close to being out in the woods as we’ve ever been.

We’re here for just a day, but the spot has put me in a contemplative state.

When I got divorced just before the Pandemic, I had no idea where I wanted to live. But I come from people who put family first. And I wanted to be close to the kids — even though one has moved to western Massachusetts, the other to LA. So my penny-wise, pound-foolish solution was to use some money from the sale of our Silicon Valley house to buy an RV.

The first one was used, old, and small. Immediately, things began to break, including the motorized Murphy bed inside. I traded it for a bigger one. Still, the Beloved1 and I found it inadequate to our age and accustomed lifestyle. On a whim, during a trip to Palm Desert, we decided to visit the RV dealer next to the RV resort. Just to window shop. Kick tires.

Well, the pull was just too strong, and I wound up with a 31-foot Class A motor coach from a manufacturer known for its quality. It’s a high-class apartment on wheels. The economic truth of an RV: While real estate generally appreciates over time, an RV doesn’t; it’s worth less the moment you drive it off the lot.

Mastering the RV has been a steep learning curve. The dealers and manufacturers generally do a poor job of teaching you. On our maiden trip in the new RV to the Grand Canyon during an unanticipated late March winter blast, we discovered our furnace didn’t work. Froze our asses off.

Now, in year two, we’re conquering the rhythms of RVing. We space our stops three-to-four hours apart, each of which invariably turns into five or six-hour drive by the time we stop for lunch and to gas up. We aim to arrive by mid-afternoon. That gives us time to set up, hook up — and to kick back for cocktail hour.

As the Beloved1 says, her idea of camping is a four-star hotel. Almost ashamed to say, but, okay, we’re glampers.

I’m actually pleasantly surprised to see how much she’s taken to the RV. Me too. Not sure why. We’ve seen many places from a different POV. Witnessed the nation’s extraordinary variation of terrain and flora.

Met many nice people. Just last evening, we encountered the M’s out on an evening walk. We bonded immediately over our similar RVs, both by the same manufacturer. He’s Italian, like me, from Cleveland. She’s from Pittsburgh, my hometown. Small world.

Perhaps that’s the whole point of the RV: It brings the big world much closer.