As for our accommodations, I wasn't anticipating the Four Seasons, but I also had no idea that I'd be sharing a loft with Gayle and Giacomo. After the three of us mount the rickety ladder to our individual mattresses, we're in for the night—a night so dark that I can close my eyes and open them again to see the same pitch-black. Without a watch, my only reference to time is my body's internal clock: For years I've always awakened to use the bathroom between 3:15 and 3:30 a.m. When I get up for my early morning squat in the bushes, Gayle—who has been holding it for hours because she's too scared to make her way down that ladder alone in the dark—braves the climb and the rain with me. Back in the loft, I whisper to Gayle, "Don't you just love the sound of the rain?" "No, I don't," she groans, still annoyed because she forgot to take her "toilet paper"—a big leaf—with her. "Did you hear little feet scurrying?" she asks. "That's just Chloe, the dog," I say. "So Chloe is up on the roof?" she shoots back. "If a mouse drops in from the ceiling," I say, "it's over for me." We snicker, trying not to wake up Mom and Dad Voorhees below, and give in to restless sleep again…until the cockle-doodle-dooing begins.