My mother once slid up next to my brother and me at a beach party and stated through clenched, smiling teeth, “Rowans do not drink beer out of bottles,” a rule I had been previously unaware of. But why? Did it label us somehow? Was drinking beer from a bottle an outward admission of drinking beer and, worse, would everyone judge us for the brand we drank? Was our beer label labeling us?

Yet, I am as guilty as most of sizing someone up in an instant by their clothes, their hairstyles, their cars, their beer. Thankfully, I’m wrong most of the time, because life would be so dull if everyone were their own clichés. Take, for example, the unwavering belief I had before I set out that the only people filling campgrounds would be older, retired couples, with astro turf “lawns” outside their RVs; where they sat, drinking beer, from a can. Sure, there are those who pull into a spot, set up an entire household, from cable TV to an inviting outdoor seating area, and never leave the comforts of their home-away-from-home for the surrounding attractions, yet they are the first ones to invite me to play cards. The other 80% of the campers are as varied as any New York City subway platform. From young, honeymooning couples, to families of three generations, I’ve met the most surprising and interesting people, all of whom have added in some way to my journey. A quick conversation at the bathrooms will inform me of a better route to my next destination. Or, a walk with my dog has led to some fascinating tidbits about skirting certain dog “rules.” As a whole, this group has so much to offer to this neophyte that I need to dismiss any initial impressions I may have had in the three seconds I’ve walked toward them, and shut up and listen. After all, I’m the 47-year-old woman, with a pierced nose and a pedicure, driving a van with mushrooms painted on it.

A great way to shut up and listen comes when the sun goes down. With no electricity, campgrounds grow very, very dark after eight and observing the neighbors is impossible. Sound, however, carries perfectly in the night.* Depending on proximity, I can sit and listen to dozens of conversations from around the campground and I try and imagine what the people look like, what they wear, what their ethnicity is, and the list goes on. The next morning I get my first glimpse and they are very rarely how I had pictured them the night before (I did peg the 20-something girl with dreadlocks with stunning accuracy). As a lesson in not judging a book by its cover, night-time campgrounds offer the perfect cover.

* The drawback is that there are a few campers who feel their campsites are their bubbles, like a hotel room, and fart, belch and blast music with wild abandon as if they were behind walls.