Always feel like somebody’s watching me, van life edition

Unless we’re boondocking on remote public land (which is one of my favorite things) I often feel like we, and our van, are being constantly watched.

It could be the bright yellow exterior, of course. It could be our incredibly cute dog. (Just today a toddler saw her through the open bed doors and shouted “what a great kitty! Meow!”) It could be my extreme level of attractiveness, especially now that I wash my hair on average every three weeks. (Okay, probably not that last one.) I think part of it is the fact that converted vans are still a novelty for most people — especially when they realize we live in ours full time — and our situation isn’t hard to figure at a glance.

Sensing that someone might always have their eyes on us means a few things. Even though Hermes is my home, I can’t lounge around in quite the same way I could when we had a traditional house. That doesn’t mean I’m not comfortable here. I love living in this 70-square-foot space! But I can’t take off my pants immediately after finishing work in the same way.

I’m also constantly aware of the image we’re presenting. Being white, and young, and born into the upper-middle class, Sean and I have a lot of privilege working in our favor. Our van is in good shape. We don’t immediately draw “oh, look at these nomads” looks from business owners or park employees.

But we can still easily overstay our welcome. And we obviously want to avoid that for selfish reasons (no one wants to be forced to leave an area, especially not in the middle of the night or when the next suitable parking spot is over an hour’s drive away) and more altruistic ones (I want to respect the integrity of shared public spaces where everyone ought to have a right to feel comfortable).

In practice, my subconscious singing Rockwell lyrics whenever we’re in an urban area means that if my hair is accruing more oil than generally deemed acceptable, I try to wear a hat or braids so I’m not obviously unkempt. If we park in a standard-sized space, we keep everything within the lines — we don’t open our back bed doors so they block a walkway, we definitely don’t set up lawn chairs outside of a grocery store, at most we crack our sliding door for air flow when things are tight because it doesn’t take up any additional room. We keep Scout leashed when she isn’t inside Hermes (even if she’s barely stepping out to lounge in front of the door) and we make sure we’re always watching her — within view of anyone walking by — so they don’t feel nervous.

These things feel like small potatoes. I am not inconvenienced, not really, by doing them. They are as second-nature as many of the tasks Sean and I adopted when we lived in a house, like offering to roll our neighbor’s garbage bin down to the road or making sure guests didn’t park on their lawn.

But they make me feel better about the message I send to those around me: Yes, we live in this van. Yes, we are absolutely taking advantage of this parking lot or quiet street or wherever else you’ve run into us right now. But no, we won’t treat it like a private campsite. We won’t leave trash around, or play loud music, or change our clothes right in front of the windshield, or let our dog interfere with somebody minding their own business.

And if we treat you kindly — with the respect that begets social mammals in shared spaces — then you can hopefully do the same for us.

I’ll happily show you photos of our build! But I’m not up for offering every stranger an in-person tour. (This is my house, after all. And it’s tiny.) I’m glad to answer a few questions! But at some point I do need to return to my work. (We don’t all have trust funds.) Scout will show you a trick! But she doesn’t want to be smothered by someone she’s never met. (And you can handle not petting her, I promise.)