As the old RV rolled in front of my friend’s Seattle home, I picked up my bags and tried to contain my excitement for the weekend to come: a four-day musical extravaganza complete with carefully plotted outfits, a strategically packed cooler and a backpack full of wine. In the larger group of University of Washington students, there were three of us graduates – old hats at the music festival game and looking forward to a break from our nine-to-fives. We had done our due diligence: requested time off, mapped out our meals, drawn up a schedule, listened studiously to our playlists.
In short, we were ready.
A caravan of cars began to pull in behind the aptly named Jamboree and suddenly, after months of Facebook planning and judicious budgeting, we were off – careening down I-90, Snapchatting each other and blasting the Sasquatch setlist from the weathered speakers. We were excited, this much was evident. But as we rolled into the campgrounds teeming with beer bongs and chanting frat boys in short shorts, we stared, dumbfounded, and realized that we were something else, too.
Amid a group of energetic college kids, the three of us stood like a very small, very responsible island in a sea of people who could drink all day and wake up the next morning without a hangover.
We huddled in our hastily constructed tent that night and asked what any newly minted Millennial adult would ask:what now?! We had just recognized that we had paid good money to sleep in a field surrounded by spirited youths, endless cries of chug! and an unrelentingly blazing sun with no access to running water, Wi-Fi or a way to chill our $10 pinot grigio (because we’re adults).
After our initial panic, though, we took a sip (read: huge gulp) of our ten dollar wine and came up with a comprehensive plan on how to survive a music festival as an adult. Let my being here to write this serve as a testament to its success: