Back in the 1970s, in Northern California, the recreational vehicle of choice was a Volkswagen Bus. My parents had a beige one and our neighbors had a blue one with a big flower on the front, and for several weeks each summer, our two families would car-camp all over the West. When the Winnebago—one of America's first low-cost, mass-marketed motor homes—came along, we kids couldn't believe it. What kind of dorks, we chortled, would go camping in something the size of a blimp?
With age comes wisdom, of course—or maybe just a certain amount of dorkdom. And then, too, I married an Italian, someone with the kind of unabashed appreciation for Americana that only the foreign-born can muster. Which I guess explains how the four of us—my wife, Noemi; my 16-year-old stepson, Bruno; my 6-year-old daughter, Claire; and I—wound up in Los Angeles this spring, looking to rent a state-of-the-art RV.
Our plan was to spend a week cruising around the California desert, seeing some of the country's great natural wonders—Joshua Tree, Death Valley, the eastern Sierra. Beyond that, I think we were all a little curious about the RV experience. Would it be fun or cheesy? Would we get along in the close quarters or be at one another's throats by trip's end?
The RV dealership had row after row of shiny vehicles for rent. We ended up choosing a snazzy navy blue Fleetwood Fiesta, 34 feet long—about 20 feet longer than anything I'd ever driven before. When we pulled on the door latch, a set of metal steps magically whirred out from under the chassis. Claire climbed aboard, did a little dance, and then rushed to claim the top bunk bed. Noemi, who works as a set designer, immediately started unpacking the fluffy duvet and housewares she'd brought to make the RV feel more like home. (See her packing list, on page 107.) Bruno sank deeper into his hoodie. "Are we seriously doing this?" he asked. "I could be home in a real living room, watching the NCAAs."
The rental agent gave an alarmingly brief explanation of the Fiesta's myriad gadgets and control panels, then bid us bon voyage. I turned the key and pulled gingerly out of the parking lot. A minute later, we were roaring along on I-5 in five lanes of traffic (but, amazingly, not taking up five lanes of traffic). It sounds scary, but the truth is RVs—even class-A monsters like ours—aren't hard to drive. Think of a big, jouncy golf cart.
Setting up house that night, at a funky RV park in Desert Hot Springs, was a matter of pushing three buttons: The first lowered four jacks to the ground and automatically leveled the RV. The second and third activated the "slideouts," pop-out panels that dramatically increase the width of the main salon and the master bedroom in back. It was like a childhood dream, watching the "house" magically expand, and for the rest of the trip, all four of us vied for the privilege of being chief button pusher.
