Location: Winter Garden (outside of Orlando, FL)
Time Zone: Eastern
Today's Weather: 86ºF, hazy with intermittent sun
Length of Tour Stop: 5 days/5 nights
Next move: in four and a half days
Time Zone: Eastern
Today's Weather: 86ºF, hazy with intermittent sun
Length of Tour Stop: 5 days/5 nights
Next move: in four and a half days
When someone says, "I live in a trailer park," what do you picture?
When you shop for RVs you learn that all trailers are not created equal. There are plenty of tricked-out, upgraded, state-of-the-art models worth twice or even three times as much as the average small house. Then again, on the same lot they'll have some heavily used, ancient piles of aluminum in which, even before you open the door, you know you'll be able to picture the piles of beer cans that must have created that unique musty smell.
Wherever your RV falls on the spectrum (and, aside from a few magic gadgets and fancy exterior paint, most of what makes an RV trashy or classy is in the upkeep), once you have it you learn that you can take the million dollar rig away from the hunk of junk on the sales lot, but you can't take the hunk of junk parked next to you at an RV park away from your million dollar rig. Or, as one of my friends very astutely put it shortly after we'd purchased, "Sure, you have a really beautiful home. But you still have to live in a trailer park."
Trailer parks, however, come in as many different shapes, sizes, and classes as trailers. Most of them, in fact, are not even called "trailer parks" at all. The deeper you get into RV culture the more you learn the secret code that vaguely alludes to the type of park for which the management is aiming. For instance, "mobile home parks" tend to be geared toward the residential set, and are often full of the type of mobile home that seems more hypothetically than actually movable. An "RV resort," on the other hand, is going to at least attempt to cater to vacationers, reserving spots for short stays and providing some sort of recreational amenities like a swimming pool or club house. The phrase "RV camping" gets used a lot and tends to indicate shorter stays for more rustic folk, perhaps people who are just passing through for one night, or customers who aren't looking for extra entertainment. But then there's the phrase "campground," which very often indicates a spacious, rambling park with some natural beauty of its own, perhaps a lake or a thick forest with trails.
When you shop for RVs you learn that all trailers are not created equal. There are plenty of tricked-out, upgraded, state-of-the-art models worth twice or even three times as much as the average small house. Then again, on the same lot they'll have some heavily used, ancient piles of aluminum in which, even before you open the door, you know you'll be able to picture the piles of beer cans that must have created that unique musty smell.
Wherever your RV falls on the spectrum (and, aside from a few magic gadgets and fancy exterior paint, most of what makes an RV trashy or classy is in the upkeep), once you have it you learn that you can take the million dollar rig away from the hunk of junk on the sales lot, but you can't take the hunk of junk parked next to you at an RV park away from your million dollar rig. Or, as one of my friends very astutely put it shortly after we'd purchased, "Sure, you have a really beautiful home. But you still have to live in a trailer park."
Trailer parks, however, come in as many different shapes, sizes, and classes as trailers. Most of them, in fact, are not even called "trailer parks" at all. The deeper you get into RV culture the more you learn the secret code that vaguely alludes to the type of park for which the management is aiming. For instance, "mobile home parks" tend to be geared toward the residential set, and are often full of the type of mobile home that seems more hypothetically than actually movable. An "RV resort," on the other hand, is going to at least attempt to cater to vacationers, reserving spots for short stays and providing some sort of recreational amenities like a swimming pool or club house. The phrase "RV camping" gets used a lot and tends to indicate shorter stays for more rustic folk, perhaps people who are just passing through for one night, or customers who aren't looking for extra entertainment. But then there's the phrase "campground," which very often indicates a spacious, rambling park with some natural beauty of its own, perhaps a lake or a thick forest with trails.
And then of course there's the good old blanket term "RV park," which could be any of -- or any hybrid of -- those ideas. I've only driven by one place (it was in Florida) that actually referred to itself as a "trailer park." As far as I could tell it was not a "bring your own trailer" type of place. The units standing on that ground looked better rooted than the trees, and for residential trailers in hurricane country that's probably a necessity if they're planning on sticking around.
These generalizations, however, are far from exact, and I'm sure each and every one of them is contradicted somewhere in the fifty states. The name the park uses tells you a little, the pictures on the website tell you a little more, and if they don't have a website then that tells you a lot. But even armed with your experience and your internet you still never really know what you're in for until you pull into your spot.
In Tampa, FL we got a great deal for the week and maybe that should have been a clue. But the place had "resort" in the name and was part of chain we'd enjoyed elsewhere. And before I go too far down this road, I want to be clear: We were not uncomfortable there. We felt safe and the people we met were all friendly, kind, and welcoming. Many of the sites were extremely well-kept and decorated with better taste than I would probably apply.
But as I drove around for the first time, planning my dog-walking route and trying to learn the layout of the roads, it was impossible not to think it. The place may have had "resort" in its name, but make no mistake, for that week we were living in a trailer park.
These generalizations, however, are far from exact, and I'm sure each and every one of them is contradicted somewhere in the fifty states. The name the park uses tells you a little, the pictures on the website tell you a little more, and if they don't have a website then that tells you a lot. But even armed with your experience and your internet you still never really know what you're in for until you pull into your spot.
In Tampa, FL we got a great deal for the week and maybe that should have been a clue. But the place had "resort" in the name and was part of chain we'd enjoyed elsewhere. And before I go too far down this road, I want to be clear: We were not uncomfortable there. We felt safe and the people we met were all friendly, kind, and welcoming. Many of the sites were extremely well-kept and decorated with better taste than I would probably apply.
But as I drove around for the first time, planning my dog-walking route and trying to learn the layout of the roads, it was impossible not to think it. The place may have had "resort" in its name, but make no mistake, for that week we were living in a trailer park.
What makes a park full of trailers also a "trailer park"? There's no one defining detail. It's more like a syndrome. When enough of the trailers fulfill enough of the cliches the diagnosis becomes clear. Cars that haven't been moved for generations? Check. Bags of garbage climbing the walls beside front doors? Check. Whole trailers overtaken by a sandy, rusty, grime? Check. Hordes of ancient tchotchkes buried in untended, overgrown shrubbery? Check.
There was a general air of inattention, a feeling that many things in the park had been set down ten or fifteen years ago and simply hadn't moved. It was not a case of gross negligence but rather the gentler neglect of the truly tired, the seriously over-worked, and the somewhat limited in motion or desire. The people I met around the park were either retired or else young parents of small children. I imagine that other types were also in residence, but these were the people who approached me while I was walking the dogs.
And for the dogs it was pure delight. So much to sniff and such complex, layered smells! Also, as the groundskeeper informed me on my very first day, he had just constructed a dog run at the back of the property. In the middle of this dog run was a large, gnarled tree that reminded me stories of about gnomes and fairies. Every day I took the dogs to that dog run, climbed up in that tree, and let my dreams mingle with the spanish moss. It turns out that even in a trailer park you can have an elevated experience.
There was a general air of inattention, a feeling that many things in the park had been set down ten or fifteen years ago and simply hadn't moved. It was not a case of gross negligence but rather the gentler neglect of the truly tired, the seriously over-worked, and the somewhat limited in motion or desire. The people I met around the park were either retired or else young parents of small children. I imagine that other types were also in residence, but these were the people who approached me while I was walking the dogs.
And for the dogs it was pure delight. So much to sniff and such complex, layered smells! Also, as the groundskeeper informed me on my very first day, he had just constructed a dog run at the back of the property. In the middle of this dog run was a large, gnarled tree that reminded me stories of about gnomes and fairies. Every day I took the dogs to that dog run, climbed up in that tree, and let my dreams mingle with the spanish moss. It turns out that even in a trailer park you can have an elevated experience.
Before I get too far away from that place I want to record a few of the idiosyncratic things I saw there. Here are the details that stick most in my mind:
- A car with American flags sprouting out of both the driver's and passenger's windows
- A half-duck-half-crane type of bird with a black body, red head, and white-tipped wings
- A woman younger than myself herding five children to her mom's meticulously kept double-wide, who matter-of-factly told me her oldest -- a teenager expertly acting as second in command -- was about to become a mother herself
- A sign on a door bearing the image of a hand holding a pistol and the declaration, "We don't call 911"
- A man who said he and his wife had moved their rig every week for seventeen years, and retired from the road to this location when he turned eighty-eight
- A car covered in magnetic twisted "awareness ribbons" for every conceivable cause, in every conceivable color
- A dog-loving World War II veteran who every day wore heavy boots, knees socks, and plaid shorts held up by red suspenders, who lived in a trailer completely enshrouded by ferns and palms
- A sign on a door reading "Security Provided By Smith & Wesson"
- A father who couldn't have been much out of his teens watching his naked toddler son play in the leaves with his girlfriend's black and white dappled dachshund
- A trailer covered in what appeared to be homemade metallic sculptures, one of which was a giant pair of eyes with the phrase "I'M WATCHING YOU" painted in capitals beneath them
- A trailer sporting a collection of plastic pink flamingos in various shapes and sizes (see below)
It was a curious, dumpy, junky place and yes, to many if not all of the sites the word "trashy" would be tempting to apply. There was no part of me, however, that felt the people I met there merited the description. They were friendly, well-mannered, genuine, and relatable. As familiarity eased me away from the contrast between this place and other parks I've known I started to accept I had something to learn there, not about the term "trailer trash" so much as about the phrase "anything goes." You move to the trailer park -- or to this trailer park, anyway -- so that you inhabit a simpler, more customizable space. You don't feel guilty for giving up on the gardening and you're completely free to decorate for Christmas 365 days a year. You suspend judgement of both yourself and of others.
And yet you do not live in isolation. In fact there is a strong but subtle undercurrent to every social interaction regarding how everyone lives with all of this stuff, and what belongs to whom. Without being told you understand that trespass can be accomplished with nothing more than glance. You make a point of looking away when someone opens their door so that they know you haven't looked beyond to what's inside. You don't linger in front of anyone else's site and you don't take photographs that have anyone else's trailer in the background.
Everyone cooperates to create a non-invasive atmosphere, so much so that sitting under our awning after dark it was tempting to think we were living alone. It stands in contrast to the aggressively defensive signs declaring the firearms on property and the determination to use them. In that environment those signs were less like big, menacing dogs guarding the door and more like yappy little chihuahuas putting on a loud show. The sign that chilled your blood was the one at the back of the park, underneath the metallic eyes. "I'M WATCHING YOU" is the real guard on duty and he lives in every trailer. He is sitting at every window, just out of view from the street. He is watching you to make sure you keep your eyes to yourself until you are back in your own trailer, at which point you go on patrol.
And yet you do not live in isolation. In fact there is a strong but subtle undercurrent to every social interaction regarding how everyone lives with all of this stuff, and what belongs to whom. Without being told you understand that trespass can be accomplished with nothing more than glance. You make a point of looking away when someone opens their door so that they know you haven't looked beyond to what's inside. You don't linger in front of anyone else's site and you don't take photographs that have anyone else's trailer in the background.
Everyone cooperates to create a non-invasive atmosphere, so much so that sitting under our awning after dark it was tempting to think we were living alone. It stands in contrast to the aggressively defensive signs declaring the firearms on property and the determination to use them. In that environment those signs were less like big, menacing dogs guarding the door and more like yappy little chihuahuas putting on a loud show. The sign that chilled your blood was the one at the back of the park, underneath the metallic eyes. "I'M WATCHING YOU" is the real guard on duty and he lives in every trailer. He is sitting at every window, just out of view from the street. He is watching you to make sure you keep your eyes to yourself until you are back in your own trailer, at which point you go on patrol.
Current Stats
Miles Driven with RV: 6185.3 miles
Days Lived in RV: 99 days
Camps Overnighted in RV: 16 RV parks, 1 Walmart, 1 Casino Parking Lot
States Camped in RV: 11 (TX, AL, TN, IN, KY, IL, NC, WV, MD, SC, FL)
Miles Driven with RV: 6185.3 miles
Days Lived in RV: 99 days
Camps Overnighted in RV: 16 RV parks, 1 Walmart, 1 Casino Parking Lot
States Camped in RV: 11 (TX, AL, TN, IN, KY, IL, NC, WV, MD, SC, FL)