I couldn’t write this until the reality of van-life caught up with the novelty. When I possum-frothed at Mark the other day as he was blocking my access to the toilet, I knew I was ready to share.
Smallness makes your actions singular.
Mark and I move around the motorhome on a 2D plane, like Pac-Man. There is one path that leads to the toilet, kitchen and bedroom. There is one place to chop onions. If I’m getting a pan from below the oven, Mark has to wait to grab his socks and ear buds.
While this might seem horrifying, it’s forced us to focus on one thing at a time and communicate our movements to each other.
”Cross through to the front and I’ll pass you your coffee.”
”I’ll put my shoes on outside so you can have the seat.”
”Fuck off and shower so I can repack the cupboard.”
I can’t take over an entire kitchen island anymore. But maybe that’s a good thing? Pulling myself out of multi-tasking means planting myself in one place. Even if that place is behind Mark’s blanket-wrapped body as he scrabbles around like a mole rat for a computer cable.
Constraints kill consumption.
Before buying a house on wheels, we lived in a cavernous 3,000+ sq ft split-level purchased explicitly for entertaining. (Then COVID hit so, party of two.) We had at least 6 rooms we never lived in on a regular basis, yet the pressure was still there to fill them with stuff.
Having truly finite space has been dolphin-jump freeing. I don’t online shop anymore. We don’t store shit we don’t need. I go into a cute store and leave empty-handed having appreciated the cute store. I wear the same wardrobe week to week and honestly, it’s the life uniform I never knew I needed. I don’t have to waste mental energy on how I look and can instead focus on what I’ll do.
Simple things are wildly enjoyable.
We looked like smug peacocks the day we bought a new trash bin and cupboard organizers.
”These are gonna fit SO WELL in the bathroom!”
”I know. Who do we think we are?”
Having mostly necessary things makes you love those necessary things. And it means you REALLY love special things - like a peated whiskey or spendy meal or flying business class. Having basic day-to-day possessions means you can splurge like a Kardashian on shit you’ll remember for the rest of your life. (Thanks, frugal trash bin!)
Too many comfortable places keep you, uh, comfortable.
Kwik Trip aka Kwikie is plenty comfy, but we can’t exactly camp out for hours in the lounge seats to watch Bravo. In Green Bay and in London, we wiled away WEEKS (months?) of life watching Severance and Stranger Things and YOU and basically anything murder-y.
I love binging shows and being a good little trash goblin. But I feel the healthiest version of my dirtbag self when I’m under open sky. And I definitely need a stiff cushion to boot me outside sometimes.
We are more adaptable than we think.
Insisting “I could never” just means you haven’t yet. Maybe you don’t want to, and that’s okay. Living in a van wasn’t high on my priority list but when Mark suggested it after saying, “I don’t want to live anywhere” (like an emo bitch), I was like, alright, cool.
Here’s the thing: Apart from childbirth, death and some surgeries, nothing is irreversible. Trying stuff is the only way we find out what we like or don’t like. I’ve discovered that after this year (or two or three) of full-time travel, I’ll happily be able to live in a tiny cottage somewhere with little to no possessions so long as I have a killer view and easy access to an airport. Maybe I already knew that part of me was there, but I just needed to press down like testing a bruise.
