Life on the road, home in a parking lot
Life on the road, home in a parking lot
The first time we slept in a parking lot in our converted van — night three or four total on the road — I was anxious.
It didn’t help that our back window covers hadn’t arrived yet, so we had to awkwardly clip a blanket (somewhat sheer because the thick ones were too heavy) across the right side of our bed. Darkness never fell completely in our new house that night. The ceiling fan barely muffled the nearby city’s sounds. I was convinced we’d get a knock at 2 am telling us to get the hell out. Scout would bark and I’d be stupid with sleep and Sean would have to get the team ready for our next play with exasperated patience like always.
The knock never came. We were allowed to park there overnight, after all, of course we’d looked up the regulations beforehand. I needn’t have been so relieved.
But the next time we slept in a parking lot (this time a Walmart) the anxiety came back. And the next. And the next, next, next for a couple months.
I started making “urban van life nights” as relaxing as possible. I’d light a candle, put on a face mask, save special chocolate just for the occasion. We discovered the Cozy Coffee Shop Jazz in the Background playlist on Spotify (and my taste profile was forever ruined). As soon as we parked, I’d sweep — then scrub — the floor. These things helped. I was creating a fortress of comfort within the bounds of a single parking space. Cracker Barrel or Walmart or right on a side street, my van was always the same.
We might spend more time than the average van lifer sleeping in urban spots. (It’s hard to know. Data on fellow nomads is slim and Instagram highlight reels would have you believe everyone’s always on remote public land.) As of April 11th, day 441 since pulling out of our old house’s driveway for the final time, our nights have been 28% parking lots and 13% on the street.
I don’t often get anxious anymore living on the road. I know what to expect — we’ve crossed the country, shared hundreds of successful sleeps, there aren’t many surprises left. I know what to look for — how to Google the right city regulation documents, which signs mean we probably won’t be bothered, how to make sure we’re kind to locals. I know that if something does go wrong, we’ll figure it out together — surviving a lithium-ion battery explosion has that effect on the psyche.
And I know that my van is my home.
Those first tentative nights felt like I was borrowing someone else’s life. Pretending to be An Adventurer in clothes a few sizes too big. Now I’ve grown right in. I still love candles and chocolate (I’ve ditched face masks, though). I still sweep and scrub the floor (but not every night). Cozy Coffee Shop Jazz continues in heavy rotation (Spotify Wrapped will never let me forget). But none of those things make Hermes home. None are required to feel comfortable.
And sometimes I think our tight, urban van life nights might actually be the most glamorous of all. Sure, a street lamp view pales in comparison to glaciers out the back window. The highway is no coyote pack howling in the night. Car horns can’t come close to an owl’s song. But there’s beauty in me and my two favorite creatures hunkering down someplace we’ve never been, content to simply be together, everything we need at hand, thrilled with our choices, our opportunities.
It is these nights I think to myself I am so lucky. It is these nights I feel I am finally centered. It is these nights I know I have come quite far.