I’d like to begin this blog post with the caveat that I am not a “real” adult in any shape or form; I can barely make easy mac for myself, have to coach myself through every phone call that is not to a family member, and answer every question of, “So, what do you want to do after college?” with a nervous chuckle, masking an attack of existentialist dread that will manifest itself hours later with frantic google searches and ice cream binges. Still, I am technically an adult, regardless of my own lack of overall maturity, and even only technical adults are expected to do certain things over the summer—i.e. work. But here I am, delaying adulthood by spending another year at summer camp. I mean, this isn’t like the Girl Scout camps of days gone by—the food is much better, there is occasional air conditioning, and everyone goes by their real names (except for Black Bear, of course). However, the similarities cannot be denied—there is a wake-up call, we have snack breaks for cookies and juice boxes, and we go swimming every Friday. We live in close quarters with ants and other insect friends, and most of our time is scheduled. I don’t have the time or Wi-Fi to verify this, but I imagine that this whole experience is not terribly different from the new Netflix series version of Wet, Hot American Summer. It’s just that instead of craft hour we have pottery washing, and we hike up the acropolis instead of Mount Smokey, and that this isn’t Camp Tweedale, its Turkey. And unlike camp, where the awards for “Best at Volleyball” and “Most Likely to Go to the Nurse” will end up sitting in your parents’ attic after a couple of weeks, our awards—our finds—actually matter in the grand scheme of things. Even a small body sherd can help us have a better understanding of the ancient world around us, and that’s pretty neat. Neat enough for us to endure four and a half weeks of blood, sweat, and dirt, and to push away the problem of our “real adult” lives. I may not be a “real” adult yet, but I am an archaeologist of a kind, and while pretty much everyone after a certain age crosses the threshold of adulthood, not many can say that they’ve ever been an archaeologist. I’m glad that I’ve got to spend these weeks at the most fascinating summer camp of my life.
