It is dangerous to ponder the transformational effects of
camping in Europe in the middle of August:
With temperatures above 30/90 and neighbors so close that, if you both
just leaned a little out your front door you could shake hands, the danger is
that it might become a gripe-fest. But I
have found living this way has made me more tolerant, the best indication of
this metamorphous can be found in how many times a day I say, “Really, who
cares?”
Watching the European men walk to the bathroom in less
than what we would call underwear, I now simply say, “Really, who cares?”
Wondering if I should change out of my sleeping shorts
before heading there myself, I also say, “Really, who cares?”
There is no doubt that living like this has changed my
opinion of where the lines of social etiquette
should be drawn: At first I am aggravated
at having to listen to some Italian musical blaring out of my neighbor’s van—until
I can no longer hear their bodily functions at which point aggravation quickly turns
to appreciation. Perhaps there should be
a Maslow’s Pyramid of Social Etiquette; the bottom layer, “The need to insulate
your neighbors from your bodily functions.”
Last month, I commenced to bleach my hair while in a
campground. I considered how ridiculous
I would look walking to the showers with a bag on my head but that didn’t stop
me. On the way over, I pictured a lady
lying comfortably on her deathbed saying, “I had a perfect life—except for that time I saw a woman walk to the shower with a bag on her head.”
I mean, really, who cares?
-K
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