The Campground Is One Of The Last Places Americans Still Talk To Strangers

Everywhere Jennifer and I travel these days, we hear variations of the same conversation.

Summary of this Post show

People tell us they're exhausted by the negativity. They're tired of the anger, the arguing, and the feeling that everyone has been pushed into one camp or another. They're weary of opening social media and finding another reason to be upset before they've even finished their morning coffee. More than a few have told us they no longer watch the news the way they once did because it simply leaves them discouraged.

The details change, but the emotion behind those conversations is remarkably consistent. People miss kindness and civility. They miss feeling connected to one another. And then they pull into a campground…

Over the past fifteen years, Jennifer and I have spent thousands of nights in campgrounds all across North America. We've stayed in luxury RV resorts, state parks, Corps of Engineers campgrounds, county parks, fairgrounds, and little mom-and-pop campgrounds that looked like they hadn't changed much since the 1960s.

No matter where we go, something remarkable happens. People still talk to strangers.

The fellow walking his dog in the morning waves and says, “Good morning.” The couple next door notices you're struggling to back into a tight site and immediately walks over to help guide you in. Someone lends a wrench, a ladder, a fuse, or a sewer fitting without thinking twice about it. Before long, lawn chairs begin appearing between campsites and complete strangers are swapping stories as if they've known each other for years.

It happens so often that most RVers hardly notice it anymore, but they should. Because outside the campground gates, that kind of thing is becoming increasingly rare.

Do you know your neighbors?

Many Americans don't know their neighbors anymore. Some neighborhoods feel more like collections of houses than communities. People drive into their garages, close the door behind them, and disappear inside until the next morning. Conversations that once happened over backyard fences now happen through text messages and social media posts.

Even when we do talk to each other, too often we start by sorting people into categories: what political party do they belong to, what television station do they watch, what opinions do they hold? Somewhere along the way, we started seeing labels before we saw people.

Campgrounds somehow short-circuit that process.

Nobody asks who you voted for before helping you level your rig. Nobody checks your opinions before loaning you a socket wrench. Nobody cares where you stand politically when you're both standing outside watching an incredible sunset paint the sky shades of orange and pink. For a little while, we become something simpler. We're just travelers sharing the same patch of ground.

One of my favorite examples happened years ago when we watched several experienced RVers help a nervous young couple back their brand-new trailer into a campsite. The husband was clearly stressed. The wife looked ready to burst into tears. Within moments, four neighboring campers had wandered over to help. One spotted from the rear. Another watched the trees. A third offered encouragement while trying very hard not to laugh at mistakes every one of us made ourselves once upon a time. Fifteen minutes later, the trailer was parked perfectly.

Half an hour later, everyone was sitting under an awning, sharing travel stories. That's campground life.

I've seen it after storms when neighbors checked on one another before worrying about their own campsites. I've seen it when medical emergencies happened and complete strangers stepped forward to help until professionals arrived. I've watched people share generators after power outages and split firewood with campers they had met only hours earlier. Those moments never make the evening news, but maybe they should.

The truth is that most Americans are far kinder than we're often led to believe.

The loudest voices in our culture tend to be the angriest ones. Television rewards conflict. Social media rewards outrage. Algorithms have discovered that keeping people upset is often more profitable than keeping them informed. Campgrounds operate by a different set of rules. The pace slows down. People spend more time outside. Conversations happen face to face instead of through screens.

Children ride bicycles together without asking where one another's parents stand politically. Grandparents gather around campfires while marshmallows roast and stories are told. Someone pulls out a guitar. Someone else tells a joke they've probably been telling for thirty years. For a few precious days, America feels a little more like itself.

We see this happen at our rallies

Jennifer and I see this at our rallies, too. People arrive knowing almost nobody, but by the end of the weekend they're exchanging phone numbers, making travel plans together, and promising to stay in touch. Friendships form with surprising speed when people put away their phones, sit down in lawn chairs, and simply talk to each other.

It turns out human beings are still pretty good at being human beings when we give ourselves the opportunity. Perhaps that's one reason so many people fall in love with the RV lifestyle.

Yes, we love the mountains, the beaches, the lakes, and the scenic drives. Yes, we love seeing new places and experiencing parts of America we might otherwise never visit. But I suspect the thing we treasure most isn't found in the destination. It's found in the people we meet when we get there.

As our country grows louder, faster, and more divided, campgrounds continue to offer a quiet reminder that we have far more in common than we sometimes think. Most people want the same basic things. They want time with their families. They want meaningful work. They want good health, good friends, and the chance to enjoy a few beautiful sunsets along the way. Those are not political goals. They're human ones.

The older I get, the more I appreciate places that bring people together instead of pulling them apart. Campgrounds do that. So do campfires. So do shared meals and conversations that last longer than anyone planned. Maybe that's why Jennifer and I keep coming back to this lifestyle year after year.

And perhaps that explains why, in a country where so many people feel disconnected from one another, the campground remains one of the last places where Americans still talk to strangers.

Long may that continue.

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