There’s an atmosphere inherent to nearly any RV park, an often instant camaraderie between you and your fellow mobile homers. No one visits an RV park, really, except to stay or live there. You’ll get the occasional daughter or grandchild rolling in to see their parents, retired types making a full time existence out of these miniature tucked away communities, but for the most part the outside world doesn’t venture into our hook up driveway homes.
Longterm residents with yards full of giant barbecue grills and fishing paraphernalia are typically nestled into their own corner, an often predominant chunk of space. Surrounded by playgrounds, dog parks, showers, restrooms, laundry facilities, an office doling out coffee and over-priced essentials, these year rounders have everything one might need on a daily basis; leaving the park can become very optional in a good facility. The seasonal types, in it for a few months at least, work campers or retired folk coming or going somewhere for the summer or to get out of a cold northern winter, are typically tucked into their own corner. Overnighters over here, tent campers over there. But everyone shares the same basic buildings for cleaning clothes or scrubbing their armpits. We mingle, merge, the rich in portable mansions on equal ground, paying the same rent basically, as those of us living in something no larger than your average minivan.
It’s a surreal existence in many ways, particularly for those of us who live somewhere for a week or a month and then move on, constantly adapting to our new neighborhoods even though essentially they’re all very similar. A tree here, a dog being walked there. Old folks happy to wave and younger blood ready to offer you a cold beer around a fire. To be lonely in an RV park is simply to be afraid to say hi, once you get past that step, and you’ve battened down your various hatches, you’re good to go on instant friendships.