This summer, we went camping. Full-on, pitch-the-tent-and-stay-in-the-same-place-for-a-week, camping. I wore the same pants for three days. We got sun-burnt and swallowed a few bugs. We played cards by lantern light. The towels smelt like smoke.
And two or three times a day, I was served awesome Americanos from the barista plugged into the power outlet that rose so mightily from the dirt in the campsite. The orange electrical cord snaking its magical way, like the yellow-brick road, to the rickety picnic table would allow the lovely coffee to land in my hands in minutes. I discovered the joys of taking hot Americanos to the hot beach. I would sit in the hot sun, with my toes in the hot sand and drink the elixir and let it soothe my soul.
Camping is awesome.