How to Live in a Van

It’s easier when you’re by the river. Find a spot with moving water. Wash your clothes over a rock. Skinny dip when you feel dirty. Cut your hair. Remember how much money you used to spend on shampoo. It felt like a different life then.

There are places to park where people won’t bother you. Campgrounds are your best friend. You watch the families come and go on weekends and summer breaks. Wonder if you’ll see them again. There are some regulars like you. You say “regulars” because it sounds better than “homeless”.

Living in a van is mostly about not living in a van. It’s about not being tied down by a home but bringing home with you. You worry less about things and more about places. Where can you get a perfect shot of the sunrise? How long would it take to get to the coast? You live your life in picturesque places. Sell those pictures to buy drinking water and gas.

There are drafts in the doors. Shove thrift store sheets and old towels in the cracks to stay warm. The back-seat folds down into a bed. Your body is accustomed to the firmness. It’s harder to sleep now that you’re alone. The tire iron sits at your bedside. Sometimes, it’s not enough to calm your fear of car thieves.

You need a new alarm. Think about getting a job. Think about the people who are up now thinking about quitting theirs. Wonder if your parents miss you. Hope your sister is still alive. If you call them now, would they yell at you or cry?

You’re happy to be burdened by fewer things, but you miss being burdened by people. You miss the drama, the “he said what?” nuances of life. Sit on park benches and people watch. Look for ones who seem as lonely as you. Think about asking them over for dinner. Remember that you live in a van.

You’re neater now than you were in college. It’s nearly impossible to have dirty dishes when you only have two. A battery block charges the fridge, and your clothes hang from the ceiling, covering the windows like a patchwork of curtains.

Clutter is your enemy. You frequent donation centers, dropping off things you’ve collected by accident — notebooks, raincoats, and shoes a few sizes too big. Mourn your old books that sit on shelves at thrift stores. A Kindle takes up less space. When you live in a van, space matters. Sentimental things fill a small plastic bin. You allow yourself these trinkets — reminders of other lives. Sometimes, it feels like this van is your only life.

Winter will come eventually. Don’t forget how to decorate. Go to Walgreens and print your favorite pictures. Tape them to the walls and try to remember that summer will come back someday. Learn to migrate like the birds. Dress like a skier when you can’t.

When you go into the city, it feels like a circus. Cafés are frightening places, but the free wi-fi and overpriced coffee lures you in. You have to treat yourself when you live in a van. Look at expensive houses. Apply for jobs at Fortune 500 companies. Pretend you’re a dog who ran away from home. You’re just waiting out the storm.

You have to learn how to talk to people again. Decide if you should tell them you live in a van. Sometimes, you’ll feel unseen, hidden from the world. Other days, you feel like a tiger at a zoo. It will surprise you to discover the caravans on the road, clusters of people just like you. Don’t take them for granted.

In the parking lot, there’s a van next to yours with solar panels and herbs growing on the roof. They have a hashtag written on the back window in paint. Look them up on Instagram. They take pictures like you. When they return from the farmer’s market, they will invite you to dinner. Accept their invitation graciously. Talk about love, loss, and living in a van.