If you had asked me four years ago if I considered myself the “camping type,” I would have answered you with a resounding “no.” (Remember?)

And while I’m not exactly Bear Gryllis over here, I think I can now say with a fair amount of confidence that I’m a decent camper.

I mean, sure, I’ve only camped in cabins and have zero desire to go it in a tent, but the cabins are about as rustic as it gets: wood boxes with no running water or heat outfitted only with basic wooden bunks where you can curl up in a sleeping bag.

In fact, the only thing I would say I out-and-out dislike about camping is the bathroom situation. (They have a public restroom and shower house at our camp site, but they are a 5-minute walk away and it’s not exactly the Ritz.) But, to be perfectly honest, it’s the showers I truly get icked out by, and I can usually go without if we only stay two nights. Over share? Deal with it.

In general, though, I enjoy most things about camping. I like the food and the relaxation.

I love hiking an sitting around the campfire. I love the peacefulness of the woods and mountains.

On the last day, I woke up before everyone else, procured a cup of coffee from the camp shop (ok, I told you we weren’t roughing it completely), and sat by the previous night’s fire embers to soak up the last of the morning’s quiet before breakfast got started.

So, ok, I’m not a camper, per se. But I’m still pretty happy for a city girl stuck in the woods.