An Ekko inquisitor. And my potty mouth.

It’s inevitable. When you’re out and about in your Winnebago Ekko, passersby will stop, look and ask questions.

It’s a brand new RV of a brand new design. There aren’t that many of us out there, so we tend to draw some attention. I’m totally OK with this. And I’m used to it. We’ve driven some rare and unique vehicles that prompted similar reactions. A 1969 Toyota Land Cruiser FJ40, a Japanese knock-off of a Jeep CJ. A 2001 Kawasaki W650, a Japanese knock-off of a 1968 Triumph.

(I must have a thing for Japanese knock-offs.)

The Subaru Justy, however, was Japanese, but no knock-off. I’d call it a Yugo on steroids. Small, boxy and as stupid-looking as a Yugo. But that’s where the similarity ended. It was a Subaru, through and through. Tough, dependable and practically unstoppable, even in deep snow or sugar sand. It met its end doing 60 mph, T-boned into a very large whitetail buck. In sacrificing itself, it protected its driver from harm. Other than the deer, a total loss, Beth’s only injury was a scratch where her wedding ring dug into her finger. A superb car, even in death.

I digress.

We encountered our first Ekko inquisitor in the beach parking lot in Lewes, Delaware, a sweet and smart lady called Jane.

“Excuse me,” she queried. “Is that your Ekko?”

Other owners have recounted the same story. I was mentally prepared for this moment. Physically, not so much. When Jane stopped me to run through her questions, I was on my way to the boys room.

Any discussion of any RV eventually leads to poo. The journey may take a few twists and turns, but the conversation’s going there, no matter what. This story is no different.

Living on an RV is like living on a boat. You carry your food and water with you. And after consuming that food and water, what your body converts it to is carried along, too. In a separate container, of course.

I was making my way across the parking lot, on my way to the boys room to keep from pooping in the RV. You do that every chance you get. It just makes life easier, in the toilet maintenance department.

Jane just couldn’t have been nicer. She was polite and pleasant and unwilling to invade our space, even when we invited her in. In return for Ekko info, she happily shared some locals’ favorite beaches for dolphin spotting and how to recycle our aluminum cans. But she had a million questions. What do we like and dislike? What kind of problems have we had? Is it comfortable? Does the engine have a lot of pep? And so on.

Her questions were intelligent. One of nine children (yeah, nine!) when she and her siblings were kids, her family vacationed in an RV her dad had built up from scratch on the frame of a Chevy truck. She knew all the ins and outs of the RV landscape.

I was happy to talk to her. She was one of those people you get the feeling you could easily be friends with. It was 7:30 a.m., too early to start working, so she wasn’t keeping me from anything. Except the potty. The whole time we’re chatting, I’m thinking, “I really gotta go!” Literally and figuratively.

Beth was in the shower, so I thought. No reinforcements coming. It was Jane and me, mano a mano.

I faced a dilemma. Though it’s not generally socially acceptable to discuss your potty habits with total strangers, I was about to do just that. She knows all about RVs which means she knows all about poop management. She would have understood and been sweet about it. I could tell by her whole demeanor.

That’s when Beth arrived. Thank GOD. She had heard Jane stop me and start running the FAQ. Thinking one of us would eventually invite her in, she delayed her shower so she could straighten up. (She cracks me up.) That was my exit strategy. I scurried off to take care of business, leaving them to discuss bedspreads and duvet covers and campground fees and who knows what else.

We make a great team.

=S