The past summer’s travels reminded me that while I like being out in the boonies I prefer not being inconveniently far from the benefits of civilization.
I don’t hate cities. I lived in them—happily—for sixty-one years. Sure, they’re crowded and noisy and filled with jerks and crazy people, but so is my head. Now, as a nomad, cities are very useful centers of resources. The larger the city the greater those resources, the broader the options.
I love being out in the beauty of nature, but I’m not the type who needs to be so far off the beaten path that there’s no longer a path and it’s a major trek to get eggs or a fan belt.
I don’t need for there to be no hint of any other humans. I’ve developed the city dweller’s (and the introvert’s) ability to tune out, to ignore it all when I want to. Sure, perfect solitude in a beautiful place is wonderful, but so is partial solitude. By accepting imperfect solitude there are far more places I can be happy. Like now, just over the hill from the craziness of Las Vegas. But like they say, out of sight, out of mind—at least until I’m out of toilet paper.