Amy Robinson Sterling

We're in a 22-foot Ford recreational vehicle in which I've brought the family to Burning Man.

Nancy Sterling, wife, mom, Amy Sterling, nine years, and the littlest desert fox, Laura of Arabia, a hardened travel veteran at four months.

We've never lived in an RV before.

It's a mutant cross between an aircraft and a small chunk of suburbia.

Everything we own or want to get rid of becomes a burden.

Toilet paper, snack bags, beer cartons, dirty diapers, our unwashed clothes.

Nancy and I take to wolfing down Amy's food so that we won't have to store it in malodorous twist-tie bags.

There's some good art here.

Driving fast in a whiteout dust fog is an excellent way to get killed.

We're in a twenty-two foot Ford recreational vehicle in which I've brought the family to Burning Man: Nancy Sterling, wife, mom, Amy Sterling, nine years, and the littlest desert fox, Laura of Arabia, a hardened travel veteran at four months.

We've never lived in an RV before.

It's a mutant cross between an aircraft and a small chunk of suburbia.

It's a quick and brutal lesson in the gross inconvenience of modern convenience.

Everything we own or want to get rid of becomes a burden: toilet paper, snack bags, beer cartons, dirty diapers, our unwashed clothes.

Nancy and I take to wolfing down Amy's food so that we won't have to store it in malodorous twist-tie bags.

There's some good art here.