A group of us go camping in the Catskills twice a year. We pile into a barebones bunkhouse (read: no heat or electricity), play "beerlympics," and hang out by a smoky campfire. I always come home exhausted, stinky, and happy. This year there was a double-booking snafu, so we wound up staying in the fancy chalet about a mile from the farm grounds. There were beds, bathrooms, a kitchen, television, and—wait for it—LAUNDRY. Still, tradition was upheld: Winter beerlympics was played, including an amazing Irish dancing opening ceremony. (I especially liked Anthony's body wave-slash-Riverdance!) Hot toddies were sipped. A gorgeous trail was hiked. And we stayed warm and toasty despite the cold, rainy weather. Hmm...I may be more of a chalet kind of person than I thought.
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