Saturday, October 13, 2012
king of the road
This blog is better than psychotherapy.
Parts of my past come out that I had completely buried. Even the recent past.
If it had not been for our group discussions about houses, I would have forgotten that I was almost part of the RV crowd. Well, the junior branch of the RV crowd.
Back in 2006, I had considered cutting my living expenses by selling my house and moving into what I thought was a relatively classy RV -- a Rialta. One of my co-workers used the adjective "classy." At least, I thought that was what he said.
What he said was "Class C" -- part of the labeling system used in the RV caste system to designate my new love as being one step up from converted van. The equivalent caste in India would be "untouchable."
But I had great plans. I would sell my house, get rid of all of my stuff, and Jiggs and I would hang out in or near my employer's parking lot. Living the life of luxurious gypsies.
This is where the Class C designation hits home. We would do all of that in a 22 foot RV.
No library. No hot tub. Fewer clothes than I stretch to last for a four-week cruise. And a bathroom that needed to be pulled out to form a shower space.
At least, it would have been good training for my living conditions in Mexico. Camping with a twist.
I was such an amateur that I did not even consider details like water and sewer hookups. So much for roughing it in an insurance company's parking lot.
And when I researched the cost of hooking up at an RV park, I discovered I would have been paying the equivalent of what it would cost to rent a comfortable Salem apartment.
Jiggs was relieved. And another of my little dreams was strangled in its crib. The fact that the dream looked a bit like Rosemary's baby probably made its early demise a not very well disguised blessing.
So, I came south with Jiggs to a beautiful beach house.
I thought of the garroted dream yesterday as I was walking around my neighborhood. What had once been a series of bucolic lots was now the site of a massive construction project.
A speculator is betting that the RV crowd would like an additional park in our hook-up happy villages. This one has 21 spaces. A swimming pool. And what looks like a community center, but I am not certain about that.
Generally, it looks rather classy. With one exception. The registration window looks as if it was borrowed from one of the local no-tell motels.
Jiggs and I could have a great time there. The RV park, that is. Had it existed a mere four years ago. Me in a baseball cap. Jiggs in a lounge chair.
What surprised me is how quickly it was built. Obviously, it must have had very good financing. Most projects do not spring up quite that quickly around here.
It is right around the corner from another new establishment. La Oficina (now headquartered in Barra de Navidad) is opening a bar-eatery before too long. All of thse RVers will have a spot close at hand where everyone knows their name.
For all of its real estate problems, this area continues to grow.
And I keep finding parts of my life that I did not even know were there.