You know those white-collar, cookie-cutter, soulless-feeling office parks that invariably occupy the professional district of any city center, their brick enclaves harobring all manner of financial advisors and medical specialists and other folks you probably don't want to see because it usually means bad things? Well, I crashed one of these parks today, or the clean-cut, professional-realm equivalent of a crash, considering how out of place an RV-dwelling nomad-yogi was in such a place.
But, as the post's title suggests, this was no ordinary office park. I'm not sure what I was expecting upon deciding to set up camp here, other than maybe some real-life version of the one-dimensional stereotype described above. Instead, I found myself in a cozy, quiet little parcel, once again nestled in the belly of a reasonably populous city (Winston-Salem, NC, this time). The lot, harbored by its rampart-like surround of polished three-story office buildings, was all mine as I occupied it for the night. The only other soul I encountered was a man in a pick-up truck who swung by briefly to deposit some trash in the lot's dumpster; I imagine he had about as little permission to do so as I had to camp there.
The next morning, yoga was performed to a transient audience of well-dressed upper-mobiles arriving for work, soon followed by their clients. As for whether I craned any necks, I'm not sure, having my eyes closed most of the time (and not being too concerned with funny looks in the first place); but I'm sure the potential was there, given the absurd contrast inherent in my presence.
If it's not obvious, my gratitude goes out to this property's owners, who were not consulted about my stay-over. (I had the blessing of the doctor I visited there the previous afternoon, but she was a mere tenant.)
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