Of course sometimes you get sick and tired of staying in big, modern hotels, where all you are is an impersonal room number, and nobody ever talks to you, and you never have to share a bathroom with total strangers. For a change of pace from this kind of stifling uniformity, you want to stay at a quaint little country inn.

The best kind of quaint country inn is the kind that’s owned and operated by a couple named Dick and Marge who’ve been married for roughly 158 years and are bored to death with each other and consequently are thrilled that you have come out into the country to give them somebody to talk to and eavesdrop on and study the personal habits of. “Don’t mind me!” Marge will say eight or nine times just during breakfast, which you eat at a table located approximately four feet from where she is working in the kitchen. “I know you two are here for a romantic weekend, and I don’t want you to even notice I’m here! Although Dick did want me to ask you to please not flush any more condoms down the toilet like you did twice last night, because sometimes they mess up the septic system. We had one couple from New Jersey, the Floogermans, and they were using the Trojan lubricated condom with the reservoir tip, and they flushed four of them on one night, let me see”—she consults her records—”it was the night of June 12, 1987, and next day we had raw sewage in the azaleas, and Dick—Dick loves those azaleas—he had a fit. He even—get this—he even got out his old machete and sharpened it up. I said, ‘Dick, what are you gonna do? Chop off their heads just because they flushed some condoms down the toilet?’ Ha ha! I had to give him one of those shots to calm him down, and he still carries a little piece of paper in his wallet with the Floogermans’ home address. He LOVES those azaleas. But listen to me chattering on! You just never mind me over here. Do you want some more waffles? I didn’t even realize you could have waffles, if you were diabetic, which I’m assuming you are from those pills in your toiletries case with your Valium. Lately I just can’t seem to get Dick to take his medication, and I really wish he would because he’s started talking to his snakes again. I wish we didn’t even have those things in the house, after what happened to those people from Ohio, the Fweemers. Although I understand that a lot of the time those paralysis things are temporary. But listen to me! Here I am talking a mile a minute, and you two lovebirds are trying to have a quiet breakfast alone! I do tend to rattle on so, and sometimes Dick—I’m sure he’s just kidding—sometimes Dick says if I don’t shut up, he’s gonna put me down in the basement, with those things he ordered from Soldier of Fortune magazine. Don’t go down there, whatever you do. But you just make yourselves totally at home here, and enjoy your time together, and do whatever you want and just forget that we’re even here. By the way, that light fixture over your bed is just a light fixture. It is not a camera. Here comes Dick now! What’s the matter, honey?”

So far we’ve discussed many exciting travel destinations, but all of them lack an element that is too often missing from the stressful, high-pressure urban environment most of us live in. That element is: dirt. Also missing from the urban environment are snakes, pit toilets, and tiny black flies that crawl up your nose. To experience these things, you need to locate some Nature and go camping in it.

Nature is located mainly in national parks, which are vast tracts of wilderness that have been set aside by the United States government so citizens will always have someplace to go where they can be attacked by bears. And we’re not talking about ordinary civilian bears, either: We’re talking about federal bears, which can behave however they want to because they are protected by the same union as postal clerks.

You also want to be on the lookout for federal moose. I had a moose encounter once, when my wife and I were camping in Yellowstone National Park, which is popular with nature lovers because it has dangerous geysers of super-heated steam that come shooting up out of the ground, exactly like in New York City, except that the Yellowstone geysers operate on a schedule. Anyway, one morning I woke up and went outside to savor the dawn’s ever-changing subtle beauty, by which I mean take a leak, and there, maybe fifteen feet away, was an animal approximately the size of the Western Hemisphere and shaped like a horse with a severe steroid problem. It pretended to be peacefully eating moss, but this was clearly a clever ruse designed to lull me into believing that it was a gentle, moss-eating creature. Obviously no creature gets to be that large by eating moss. A creature gets to be that large by stomping other creatures to death with its giant hooves. Clearly what it wanted me to do was approach it, so it could convert me into a wilderness pizza while bellowing triumphant moss-breath bellows into the morning air. Fortunately I am an experienced woodsperson, so I had the presence of mind to follow the Recommended Wilderness Moose-Encounter Procedure, which was to get in the car and indicate to my wife, via a system of coded horn-honks, that she was to pack up all our equipment and put it in the car trunk, and then get in the trunk herself, so that I would not have to open the actual door until we had relocated to a safer area, such as Ohio.

This chilling story is yet another reminder of the importance of:

Selecting the proper campsite can mean the difference between survival and death in the wilderness, so you, the woodsperson, must always scrutinize the terrain carefully to make sure that it can provide you with the basic necessities, the main one being a metal thing that sticks out of the ground where you hook up the air conditioner on your recreational vehicle. I’m assuming here that you have a recreational vehicle, which has been the preferred mode of camping in America ever since the early pioneers traveled westward in primitive, oxen-drawn Winnebagos—Of course there are some thoughtful, environmentally sensitive ecology nuts who prefer to camp in tents, which are fine except for four things:

1. All tent-erection instructions are written by the internal Revenue Service

(“Insert ferrule post into whippet grommet, or 23 percent of your gross deductible adjustables, which-ever is more difficult”).

2. It always rains on tents. Rainstorms will travel thousands of miles against the prevailing winds for the opportunity to rain on a tent, which is bad because:

3. Tents contain mildews, which are tiny one-celled animals that are activated by moisture and immediately start committing one-celled acts of flatulence, so that before long it smells like you’re sleeping in a giant unwashed gym sock.

4. Tents are highly attractive to bears. When bears are young, their parents give them, as a treat, little camper-shaped candies in little tent wrappers.

So I’m recommending a major recreational vehicle, the kind that has a VCR-equipped recreation room and consumes the annual energy output of Syria merely to operate the windshield wipers. Other wilderness survival equipment that you should always take along includes:

A hatchet, in case you need to fix the VCR Cheez-Its A flashlight last used in 1973, with what appears to be penicillin mold growing on the batteries

And speaking of penicillin, you need to know: