The Sitch at the Resort

“Winter Texans” is what people call themselves—people who come down here from the Midwest, mostly (some Canadians), and stay at their RV place for three months, hanging with other Winter Texans.

I was planning on writing about cultural isolationism in this park, but, you know what? I’ve been here only a week, so I’ll wait on that.

What I can tell you about is the routine we’re falling into, plus what our campsite is like. Welcome and quiet are my summaries.

Sunrise Banjo Walk

That’s what I call photos from Banjo’s and my dawn walks around the perimeter. I can’t express enough how grateful I am to be able to walk her here. When Tracy has to do all four walks every day because I’m too freaked out by dogs to do it, I feel like I’m pulling my weight even less than the lame amount that’s usual. Here I can at least walk the damn dog. (Sorry, Banjo, no offense meant. You are a complex dog, not a bad dog,)

While we’re walking—and throughout the day—the resort is pretty quiet. I assume people are still driving down here.

See that spot to the right of us? Still gloriously empty! And the spot on our other side has just one guy in it, working on his rig. There are a few kids and dogs and partiers here, but the lots are big enough that the wind blows all their sounds away.

My Own Walk

I tried walking out of this place, I really did. But there’s only a highway connecting us to Brownsville, and people drive any damn way they want to here, so after a few scary minutes walking beside that highway I turned around and walked right back in. Plus, even Tracy warned me about these loose dogs in particular. So, I’m not walking out. (Who’s the afraid isolationist now, eh? Being a visitor to some places is so weird.)

In any case, I’m walking around the danged park for exercise, down one lane and then down another, winding my way around the whole place.

Later on, I’ll give you a tour of the rigs like I did in the Keys, but frankly there’s not enough diversity yet to show them off. Not that it’s all about Airstreams (okay, it is), but there are only two others in here, of 300 sites. No vintage campers, no homemade rigs, nothing but big campers that people bring here (or keep here in storage) for living in over the winter. Well, I’m not here to look at trailers, right? I’m trying to get some exercise.

Not Walking

What am I talking about, like I’ve been exercising every day. I have not.

(This is a photo of me napping in the tent, since it felt so good.)

Ever since before the day of the pee hat, I’ve been trying to figure out what’s up with my health, and I don’t know if I have something wrong with me or if all this close analysis is making me feel like something’s wrong. I do know that the steroid I’ve been taking as an experiment until I can see a specialist was a very bad idea.

So, some days I’m riding my bike around like the good old days, joining the yoga class and sitting in the hot tub, and some days I’m taking weird selfies of half my face in the tent.

What I do know is that I’m glad I’m here, even with the weird culture clash. Everyone uses the word, “safe” when they leave reviews about the place, which I know is code for “not near those scary foreigners.” To me it means I can nap in the tent and not have to deal with loud neighbors or generators or barking dogs. I have my own space here, the weather is nice enough that I’m outside all day long, and I know I’m going to feel better if I get off my butt and do that exercise. Here goes.