I've
been living on the road for more than a year. Seattle, Los Angeles, San
Diego, Baja, Las Vegas, Tempe. Something like 20,000 miles. Let me
break down a few of the things I've learned along the way.
Prepare to be judged: By your friends, your family, co-workers. Both past and present. And pretty much everyone you'll meet along the way.
Excess is Excessive: There's this scene in "Grand
Prix" where the owner of the Japanese team is talking to James Garner,
his new driver, about Americans and their excess. It goes something
like, "Why do Americans buy big house with lots of closets and then fill
those closets with things they don't use…And then buy bigger houses
because they're running out of closet space?" That's always stuck with
me, a reminder that if I haven't used something in a year or more, I
likely never will again.
Living on the road forces you to assess all the things occupying your
suddenly very limited space. Clothing is the easiest thing to overdo and
also the easiest to exorcise. How many shirts do you really need? And
jackets. Are you really going to wear that windbreaker?
I like to lay all my apparel out and, if I haven't worn something in
more than a month and if it's not going to be necessary for an upcoming
climate, it goes.
Black t-shirts are best, as you can wear them for days on end without
evidence. A base layer is also important, but not everything has to be
made by some overpriced outdoors brand. I have a thin grey sweatshirt,
purchased second hand, that has traveled with me for years. It's an
essential, and that is essentially what you want. Things you can't live
without.
I know people like an opinion, so here's one: get rid of two-thirds of
your clothes before you hit the road. Take things for two climates: warm
and cold. You can always layer. Socks and underwear are important, but
you don't need a clean pair every day. You can wash things. Learn to let
go.
Keep your butt clean: Really. Hav you seen that documentary "Surfwise" about Dorian Paskowitz? He and his wife and nine
children lived in a variety of RVs for the better part of two decades.
The most important rule they had? Keep your asshole clean.
Showers can be skipped; I've gone a solid two weeks living in the same
shirt and shorts. But your butt? You've gotta keep that thing clean.
You can usually find a hostel with a pay-to-play shower. State Parks
are good too, a number have coin-operated shower stalls. There are even
few surf shops along the coast with outdoor showers.
Living in a van doesn't have to leave you smelling like old socks. The
trick is to take advantage of any opportunity to scrub yourself down. On
that note, Dr. Bronners — the hippie shit with the words on the bottle —
works great. You can use it on just about everything and even wash your
clothes in it. The pepperment flavor might leave your business a bit
tingly though; my friend Walker calls it, "a breath mint for your
balls."
All Day Distractions: Living in a small space like a
van isn't for everyone. Distract yourself by creating something. Draw,
write, cook, just make something. Maybe a list! Things you'd like to do,
places you'd like to see or sketch a design of something you've been
meaning to make. The idea is to make the most of your time on the road.
Soon enough, you'll be back in some apartment, entranced by the screen
in your hand.
On the Internet and eating out: I'm a no good cook.
Top Ramen, toast with peanut butter, that's about it. So, figuring out a
healthy diet is hard; pizza and pints are all too available and
appealing. So, when you pull into a gas station in the middle of
nowhere, grab some beef jerky, nuts and water. The coffee might be crap,
but it's better than soda. You can stock up on bulk snacks too —
granola, trail mix, dried fruit and the ever important peanut butter.
With the Internet, your best bet is going to be to steal it. Starbucks
is always an option, but so are libraries, sandwich shops and even bars.
I can't tell you how many times I wrapped up a work project sitting
over a pint at Pizza Port in San Clemente after surfing all day.
If you're planning to be on the road a long time, get yourself a gym
membership at one of those big chains that's actually open 24 hours.
They'll have showers and Internet you can access from the parking lot.
You'll be dead soon: A friend recently suggested he
would like to move to Mexico. Somewhere with cheap beer, warm water and
consistent surf. I knew that money wasn't holding him back, so asked
what was. "We just need the courage."
About midway into our current adventure, I accepted a job back in
Seattle. We were living out of our van in southern California at the
time. Hesitant, but eager for some extra income, we packed up our things
and headed north. Fast forward a few weeks and we were living in a
comfortable little studio apartment, furnished with all the things we
could ever want.
Not more than three weeks later, the company brought in a new manager
who immediately decided to do away with the marketing department,
including me. Fear, was the first feeling. That was weird, given that
we'd spent so much time living in uncertainty. Comfort comes quickly
and, like any good drug, leaves you needing more. The idea of abandoning
all our newly-acquired — the Chesterfield couch, the teal waterfall
dresser, the french doors that separated our living and dining rooms —
was terrifying. But it was all just a bunch of stuff. I
remembered how easy it is to just get rid of everything and still be
happy. Maybe more than you were to begin with; maybe more than you ever
will be again. Courage came next. We packed up our shit, again, and said
goodbye to a city neither one of us is terribly fond of.
Certainty is something people put a lot of importance in. But there's
beauty in the unknown and freedom in it too. Our impermanence may have
been forced on us this time, but, turning over the keys to the apartment
and climbing back into the van, a concordant sight of relief escaped
us. No, we're not sure what the future holds, where we'll live or if
we'll be able to pay all of our bills on time. Or even where we'll sleep
tonight.
I guess sometimes you just gotta say, "What the fuck? Make your move."
