It was rainy in southwestern Bohemia on the first day of autumn. The raindrops stuck to my windshield as I drove down a long, rocky driveway, leaving behind the stability of a brick-and-mortar home, bringing my entire home with me instead, nestled into the 3 by 1.8-meter back of my van.
Having lived for the past three years in a place that didn’t feel like home—home was still in California, and any hopes for return had slowly all but disappeared—I had one goal: to find a place where I’d find that feeling again. I’d quit my teaching job, kept only my remote online one (which, with the way teachers are treated and paid, had always been the one of the two I planned to keep, no matter how much I loved the kids), and moved my entire life into a medium-wheelbase Peugeot Boxer. From the autumn equinox of 2025 onward, home is where I park it.
The first few nights after you move to a new place, it’s normal to be slightly anxious. Especially when that new home is in a different place every night, and has very thin walls, and feels too easy to break in, and is moveable, and very much something many would consider not suitable to be called home.
I spent the first few nights at rest stops along German highways. It was easy to get lost among other travelers who stopped for a few minutes, and truck drivers who were taking their mandatory sleep/rest stops. It was easy to convince myself that nobody would pay much attention to a random white van. After all, in those transient places, nobody really pays much attention to anything except for bathroom, food, and coffee. Most main German rest stops are also quite clean and comfortable.
I’ve created a set of rules for myself, because living on the road has great potential for complete chaos and loss of purpose. One of those rules is that every day, no matter the weather, I go for a walk or a run. It doesn’t matter how long or short it is; I have to acknowledge the privilege of being able to live nearly anywhere by exploring and getting to know the places I go. Sometimes, it’s also a necessity; for example when the temps plummet and the heater in your home decides to give up on the coldest night of the year. A morning walk to warm up the limbs and welcome the sun is a must then.
In a strange way, rules are what allows me to experience the freedom that comes with living on the road. They’re what helps me to realize and appreciate it again and again. The one about hiking and exploring is perhaps the most important one because when the breaks on your car home stop working and you have to bring it to a garage and suddenly be without a roof above your head, it’s easy to become melancholic. Following your own rule about getting to know the place you’re in can do wonders for the morale then.
There are some things that get a bit harder. You have to pay attention to how much water you’re using; you can’t just turn on the tap like you can at home. And you have to plan how to get rid of your grey water, and when to get your fresh water. You have to ration electricity. Do you want to have warm water, or do you want the fridge to work? Do you want to park in that one place you really like or do you have to choose a different one because it has more direct sun so your solar panels can do a better job? It taught me to be much more mindful about things that I used to take more or less for granted.
I’m still figuring things out. I’ve been without electricity, without water… without home, even, when my van needed to go in for some repairs in rural Wales. (Cue me with my second-language English accustomed to American accents trying to understand true rural Welsh accent. It’s one of my favourite and funniest memories.) But, and as cliché as it might sound, I’ve learned things—things about myself, things about people. For example that most everyday people are much kinder than what the news would have you believe nowadays.
I even learned a few really funny things. For example that, despite having been all over the world in the past ten years, despite having lived in different states and countries, I still get super anxious about using a gas station from a different chain than the one I’m used to when visiting Czechia. It doesn’t matter that, on my travels, I’ve used hundreds of different gas station brands. Riddle me that.
So far, living on the road has been an interesting experience. Sometimes wonderful. Sometimes scary. (Imagine you’re a woman, you’re alone, it’s the middle of the night, and you get woken up by someone walking around your car, shining in your windows, and taking pictures of your plates.) But mostly it’s a good, semi-normal life with a few extra privileges and a few extra worries. I guess you have to choose what it’s worth it for you.
Hit the Road with Me 