I have returned from a camping/research trip to upstate New York, where I spent a day combing through papers in Syracuse University's library and spent a night aside Oneida Lake. The best thing about camping is my tent, which, despite a downpour, kept its occupants dry. There is something comforting about hearing rain fall but not feeling rain fall. The worst thing about camping is the campers. I imagine their ranks to include level-3 sex offenders and thieves itching to Shanghai me as I visit the restroom at 4 a.m. I didn't come to this prejudice through interaction but rather intuition. Perhaps they have the same stereotypes of me as I do of them, pegging me as a laid off carnival worker or the proprietor of a rural meth laboratory. To spite me, my fellow campers fail to hatch the contrivances against me that I that I know they wished to realize. I break camp, and break for home--a wooden structure as good at keeping out ne'er-do-wells as my vinyl tent is at keeping the rain at bay.