They’re a lot like the showers in international airport lounges, complete with fresh towels (you have to bring your own towels to RV park showers). Nicer than even the most luxurious RV park. Taking a shower with all those truckers?! It turns out that trucker showers are about the nicest you’ll find on the road. I was talking with someone about truck stop showers and she was appalled. I read on a trucker message board that they’re totally legit, with one guy providing the evidence that he only gets offered something extra about every 1 in 10 times. Truckers driving all day long surely have aching backs. On the one hand, the idea totally makes sense. Fortunately, my Roadtrek can park anywhere, so I can just pull into a quiet spot and I’m set for the night. When I’ve asked the clerk about overnight parking (which unlike at Walmarts and Cracker Barrels, you really don’t have to do), the refrain has always been the same: don’t block the lanes where the trucks need to drive, don’t park in one of their spots. The biggest rule is to stay out of the way of the trucks. Truck stops are definitely better than Walmart parking lots because you wake up to freshly brewed coffee (10 cents off with your Good Sam card!). įor full-time RVers, not just heading out camping for the weekend, a truck stop can be better than an RV park: free parking, easier to get to, and all the amenities except maybe a view of the lake. They have everything: showers, laundry rooms, hair salons, massage therapists, churches. Truck stops have rebranded themselves in recent years to the friendlier “travel plazas”. Truck drivers in person were large and loud and possibly a little bit dangerous. Did anyone have their ears on?īut in person? That was another story. In my stepdad’s more magnanimous moments, we sometimes joined in. In the heydey of CB radios, we learned their secret language. But they had these secret rooms in the back: diners, stores, entirely different gas stations where only truckers were allowed.įar away, truckers were our friends: honking at us as we made the universal “please honk your trucking horn at us” motion from the back window of the car. They looked OK at first: like a normal gas station or convenience store. So many plastic horses, feathered wind chimes, and elaborate key chains that no one would buy me. The Stuckey’s stops were exercises in disappointment. The map of America in my mind was filled with Travelodges (and its inexplicable logo of a sleepwalking bear), truck stops, and the occasional Stuckey’s. Whether we were moving halfway across the country (yearly) or driving to see my grandparents (holidays and summers), my parents had the unwavering goal of getting there as fast as possible. My childhood was filled with moments of passing right by a Live Buffalo I could Pet and a Real Teepee I could Explore.
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