"Friends of the Moment" she said as a twenty minute conversation was wrapping up, "That's what we are now." Her husband was making all the same signals I do when I'm done with a particular interaction. Fiddling with his bike gloves, putting on his helmet, we have people to meet, etc.

I get it. Introvert here. It occurred to me far too late in life to permit myself to not want to be with people all the time. It isn't that I am antisocial and snobby (things I said about myself and I'm certain people said about me). I just don't have the energy reserves to handle it. And that's OK. This reminder works a solid sixty percent of the time.

So Friends of the Moment was an appealing concept. Where the chance of seeing someone again was low. I found myself not needing the "this is what I want you to see" theater. What I am is an unshowered, forty-something woman living mostly outdoors in a hundred or so square feet with two filthy children very enthusiastic about building dams in any given body of water and National Park Junior Ranger badges. I didn't have to do the calculus on the social hierarchy or who knows who or how this social impression could effect me or my children down the road. There is no effort required to text and invite to dinner, get together, with kids or without, what time, no I can't, how about Tuesday. No obligation exists past the moment we come to the glove-fiddling.

None of this is to say that deep friendships and connection aren't vital. They have taught me things about myself I would never know otherwise, both for good and not so good. But not everyone will end up being one of those and there's nothing actually wrong with me if they don't.

So the Friends of the Moment ride off on their bikes having shared a few good travel destinations and some tidbits of parent and now grandparent wisdom. They've reminded me for a few moments that my boys are two children playing on the beach instead of craters of need for snacks and energy management. They've introduced me to the idea that connection is still possible in even the smallest of interactions.

Ever since this exchange I've been searching for these friends and these moments. I've kept a catalog of some, so here follows an annotated list of people you meet at a campground:

-A fully tattooed (even her neck) woman from Denver who imparts the astonishing piece of wisdom that even if the boys aren't getting great academic schooling at the moment that, if things go south, at least they know how to live in a van.

-A shirtless campground "mayor" with two gold necklaces that fall no lower than his collarbone who recommends not swimming on this beach since it's made of crushed up zebra mussel shells and who is leaving with his lady friend the next day to attend an outdoor wedding in Nevada in June. I wonder, as they drive off, if he will be wearing a shirt to that occasion.

-A father and son driving from California to Florida to complete a cross country move begun by their spouses. A baby will be arriving in a few months. This trip is being undertaken in a van and in the course of the conversation it is mentioned that there is plenty of lidocaine available as the son is an ER doctor.

-An early-thirties couple, the wife of which is sobbing so heartily that her neck scarf is wilted. They have just lost their roof camper tent on a hideously windy day by the side of the road and despite the proximity to Las Vegas, the seat of more hotel rooms than would ever be necessary in any location ever, couldn't find a vacancy. They have been relocated from another spot in the campground after having chosen one that was previously reserved.

-A painter who, upon arriving, shut down her van, tied her cat's leash to the door handle, squatted on a log, and created a postcard-sized watercolor of the lake below. She gifted it to us with her Instagram handle on the back and said that she had just lost many of her patrons who thought her living in a van and travelling the country was a step too far them to support.

-A WOOFer who was fired from her tech job at the beginning of the pandemic. She was heading towards our hometown and it was surprisingly hard to recommend what to do there. She carried an extra pair of men's boots and a second camp chair to put next to the fire pit in order to feel safer being by herself. When approached by a man at her campsite, she waved her hand in my husband's direction and said that her boyfriend was helping fix something across the way and would be back shortly.

-A flute player that began a quiet concert in a campsite full of pine trees after the fifth star popped out of the blue dusk. They were joined the next evening by a violinist. I worried for their cold fingers and whispered thank you with the intention of speaking it louder the next morning but they were gone.

-A New Yorker living in the same kind of Prius sitting in our garage at home with her dog. She had strung up a hammock with a great view of the lake and asked about my paddleboard, she'd been thinking about getting one but wasn't sure about the space. She didn't stay at campgrounds much just parked by the side of the road most nights. She was thrilled by the calculation of having a New York salary while living on the road.

-The young couple with an large RV emblazoned with the word "Stealth" on the side that flew into the campground at 9 PM on a Friday night. They attempted to park twice in their pull-through space, making the second approach at a solid 25 mph. Four kayaks and three bikes were taken out of the RV and they later asked us for our five gallon water jug so they could take showers at 10 PM after lighting their fire using half the contents of a gas can.

-The retired couple that met us on a dusk walk to the lake to see fuzzy goslings. They have grandchildren the age of our boys and her eyes light up when they loudly and emphatically list all the animals they saw today and how many Junior Ranger badges they have (18, in case you are also curious). The next morning as we are hooking up the trailer, she walks over and gives them both a hug and tells them to give the redwood trees a hug too on their way out.

This story based on an experience at Lake Tahoe, California. Friends of the Moment listed are from Grand Canyon; Boulder Beach Nevada; Lake Ouachita Arkansas, Santa Fe New Mexico, and Lassen Volcanic National Park California.