Boondocking, moochcamping, and the best sleep ever

Having recently returned from our first long-haul trip of 3,000 miles to spend Thanksgiving with family in Florida, it is official:

Pat and I sleep better in the Paddy Wagon than we do our own bed.

I know it sounds crazy, especially for someone like me, who, according to the results of my DNA spit test, is genetically predisposed to be a light sleeper. (Out of all the debatable genetic traits my saliva supposedly revealed, this one is legit.)

But it’s true. Over a 10-day trip, we spent 6 nights in the van, and only moved indoors when we stayed 4 nights at our relatives’ house at our southernmost destination. We were so comfortable sleeping on our $150 tri-fold memory foam van mattress that we politely insisted on “moochcamping” in our family and friends’ driveways even when they invited us to sleep in their houses. I don’t blame them for looking at us like they thought we must have been inhaling toxic Paddy Wagon fumes.

Pat thinks that the reason we slept so soundly is because the outside temperature ranged from a brisk 34 to 65 degrees. His sleeping rule is “the colder the better.” I agree, although on the coldest nights, I padded myself with multiple pajama layers, a hat, and gloves before I climbed into bed, compared to Pat who rarely wears anything more than a T shirt and skivvies for fear he might overheat in freezing weather.

The only night I had trouble sleeping was the night we boondocked in a parking lot in Savannah, Georgia. I was tired and ready to sleep, but this charming Southern town was not. I discovered that Savannah does not sleep, especially on a Saturday night, and at least not until 5am when the crowds of loud, rip-roaring partiers on the street finally dissipated.

Still, nobody bothered us and the booming music, laughing, and partying did not keep Pat or Maya awake. At one point during the wee hours, I heard them snoring in unison.

For me, a Savannah sleep hangover was nothing a good cup of van coffee couldn’t ameliorate in the morning.

The night we stayed in St. Augustine, Florida, could have been a reprise of my Savannah experience. When we arrived after 5 pm, the roads were so choked with cars, it took Pat almost an hour to travel one mile. Maya and I had to jump out of the van because:

1. She needed to find some grass to do her “business,” and
2. I wanted to try to get to the Visitor Center before it closed.

Only Maya succeeded in her task. Although the sidewalks and grassy areas were as congested as the street, Maya sniffed the ground until she found her so-called “sweet” spot, and the second her rump hunched, passing tourists instantly steered clear to give Maya a few feet of privacy. I dutifully picked up her doo with a scented doggy bag and deposited it in a nearby trash container as we rushed to the Visitor Center, which was closing the minute we arrived. Unfortunately, the “No Pets Allowed” sign nixed my idea of quickly running in and grabbing a map anyway.

After a frantic phone call trying to figure out where we could hook up with Pat in the Paddy Wagon, Maya and I walked a few more blocks, braving throngs of tourists and dogs before we planted ourselves on a corner next to a Spanish-era black cannon and pile of cannon balls to wait for Pat to wend his way to us.

St. Augustine was so crowded it felt like Times Square on New Year’s Eve, which, although I’ve never actually been in Times Square on December 31^st, is definitely the last place on earth where I would want to be. Big crowds overwhelm me with a sense of foreboding that makes me want to scream and flee.

Through all the noise and dogs and chaos, Maya was great until we were standing on the cannon corner. She must have sensed my “fight or flight” anxiety because she barked like crazy when an angry Santa in a horse-drawn carriage clopped by on the opposite side of the street. She wasn’t barking at the horses. She was barking at the Santa, whose hearty “ho ho ho’s” were definitely NOT jolly.

Santa had about as much patience for this traffic jam as I did.

When the Paddy Wagon finally pulled up, Pat caught the desperate and panicked look in my eye when I cried out, “get me out of this hell hole!”

Not my finest moment.

It all turned out fine, though. When we found a distant side street to park, make dinner, and gather our wits, I read that visitors are NOT allowed to sleep in their vans overnight anywhere in the city of St. Augustine, so we had to find somewhere else to go. On a boondocking app called iOverlander, I found a rest stop about 6 miles away on a tiny sliver of land that allowed overnight parking. It was right on the beach and when we pulled in, there were already two other campervan/RV’s in the parking lot. It was perfect. In the morning, we got up in time to see the sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean, and after breakfast, we drove back to St. Augustine, parked in a free RV parking lot, and walked in peace down the deserted streets and around the circa 1695 Castillo de San Marcos.

The most wonderful thing about our trip down South was visiting family and friends, some of whom we hadn’t seen for many years. I shed a few happy tears on this trip reconnecting with people we love so much.

The second best thing was sleeping in the van.

We had only been home a few days when I asked Pat if he missed being in the van.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“Me, too,” I agreed.

But who says we can’t moochcamp in our own driveway if we want a good night’s sleep?

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