There's just something festive and magical about sleeping under a tent, especially if said tent resembles something you might have seen on the grounds of a carnival or circus in the early 20th century. Maybe it's a bit of nostalgia for me — I spent the majority of my teenage years traveling to cities and towns of all sizes competitively showing horses — and I sure miss those days. I don't need my tent to have striped fabric walls or bright and bold colors abound; I'm dreaming of something more subtle. A simple iron bed with a handmade quilt, a comfy old chair for reading (Water for Elephants is the perfect novel to evoke the mood of these days long gone), and the Moravian star pendant to cast a captivating glow throughout the night. No clowns or trained circus animals are necessary, but if a wild one passes through the meadow or field where my tent is situated, I imagine I'll pull out my old school camera to snap its picture. And since this is my fantasy, l'd like to be a short bike ride away from a picturesque, quaint town — one with a barber shop (pole and all), a candy store and an ice cream parlor, all parked on main street.