When we were kids, my siblings and I begged our parents to go camping.

Spongebob and Patrick were doing it. The Discovery Channel showing explorers under banana leaf tents were doing it. Heck, even my neighbor was doing it.

So, there’s no reason not to do it!

Camping, to us, was alluring, a mystery, a life-filled of adventure. We wanted to be a part of that. We wanted to be part of the cool kids.

When the day when our parents gave in came, they took up a tent in one the bodegas and set up a tent in our concrete backyard and called it camping.

To us at the time, it was perfect. A tent and a small stove outside for marshmallow smores was the perfect formula for adventure just like in the cartoons.

When night came, we prepared our stuff and grabbed any snacks we can get and went inside the tent.

It was a small tent, but it was enough for all of us. We put our stuff inside and immediately grabbed the bag of marshmallows and started roasting them.

Time passed, our butts were aching. We lied down on the tent only to be met by cold and hardness of the concrete floors. Our skin was itching and we can’t even sleep.

When things started to turn for the worse, the novelty wore off. The mystery of camping gone. The adventure overhyped.

Before the day even ended, we left the tent and slept on our bed never missing the tent left outside the backyard.