Originally published in August 2020.
I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this algorithm, but van life is very Instagrammy right now. Current global conditions, meaning an actual pandemic that I still can’t fathom (but fully believe) is real, have resulted in many a free spirit opting to swap their leases for Sprinter vans and hit the road. I love this idea. I’m a huge fan of small spaces, minimalist living, and ample freedom. What I cannot bring myself to include in my fantasies is pooping in the woods, public toilets, or an actual goddamned bucket, always, every time. Absolutely not.
You’ve seen these videos, the ones that walk you through the entire build-out process, from the awesome deal they got on a van because it’s missing a passenger seat, headlights, and a gas tank, all the way through to the first day they get to make vegan fajitas on a hotplate in a national park. It’s hard not to fall in love with the idea of that life, that amount of freedom, and that much potential to live easily and simply among beauty. While I don’t doubt its merits, I don’t doubt its realities either. And since I have a very sensitive stomach and sense of smell, forgive me if I don’t break my lease.
Before I really get into the tall grass here, I know that there are many, many ecologically sound, convenient, and completely manageable ways to shit in a van. Or, as it were, just somewhere outside. What I am saying is, there is no circumstance or situation in which I would want any of those options to be my daily disposal method. You never think about how much you enjoy a flushable toilet until you no longer have one, and I just choose to imagine that reality in advance. We’re all allowed to have our own personal dealbreakers in life, and until further notice, a flushable latrine is one of mine.
The van life build out I could accomplish with even just one month’s Brooklyn rent makes me cry sometimes, it really does. I feel so stifled here, so held in place indefinitely. There are moments it is so depressing that I can’t go anywhere, I feel physical pain. I’m not meant to stay in one place like this, I know that for sure. But then I do something really square, like wash my hands in the sink or casually pee because I’ve had quite a bit of sparkling water today, and I start to feel better, and fast. Because I’m able to imagine a life where that’s not possible, and while it sounds adventurous, it also sounds fucking nasty. Exploring van life as a casual consumer has had the unintended effect of making me genuinely grateful for everything I have, even though I haven’t left Bed Stuy since March. Yes, you can go anywhere, but you also have to go everywhere, know what I mean?
Judge me all you want, but my ideal relationship involves indoor plumbing. That is my truth.
I see very in-love van couples snuggling in their beds with coffee and the back doors open to the most incredible views of the beach, and all I can think in my head is… there’s a bucket of shit just out of frame, isn’t there? Like they’re not fooling me, I know how manicured that photo is and how romantic it most definitely is not every single time either of them has to go to the bathroom. Because they don’t have a fucking bathroom. Don’t sell me half a dream, dammit. Everybody poops—even you with your beach waves and man-bun boyfriend. Listen, I’ve been in love before. But there is no man I’ve loved so much that I would, at any point, dispose of his leavings in accordance with ecological responsibility. I can’t even say I have any interest in disposing of my own. Judge me all you want, but my ideal relationship involves indoor plumbing. That is my truth.
It’s the permanence of the situation, do you grasp that? Could I shit in a van for a month? Probably. For the foreseeable future? Maybe, but like… I don’t want to. Not even a little bit. Yes, you relieve yourself of worries such as rent, electric bills, and asshole neighbors, but you take on the very real responsibility of physically dealing with 100% of your poops. Think me a weakling if you wish, but that shit is literally not tracking for me.
And it’s not just poop, my friends, no no. Van couples have so much more testing the limits of their love. There are all sorts of cleanliness concerns I’d have living in a van as a woman on my own, much less with an actual human man and all their niceties. Showering would be less frequent, and perhaps I could get used to that. But in researching this essay I found articles touting portable bidets as solutions to limited access to showers, and I think the fuck not. I mean have you checked the divorce rates lately? And that’s when people aren’t living within permanent smelling distance of each other. Are you taking “follow me” photos to the safe waste disposal site? I mean, are you?
The gross logistics of van life are legion, and for some reason, they never seem to make it into the viral videos. If you don’t opt to exclusively shit in the woods, you’re relying on public restrooms, long known for their cleanliness and privacy. And if you’re not doing either of those things, you have to use some kind of apparatus that allows you to drive around with your waste in the van until you can get rid of it. You know what else rides around in the van with you? All of your food. I want to keep going down this train of thought but every part of me wants to throw up right now. Oh my god, throw up! You have to deal with that, too!
I could get into more, like how I would feel exactly 0% safe living in something that could literally be towed to the location of an ax murderer’s choosing as I sleep. Floods, blizzards, literally anything I’d have to outrun in order to survive would be a permanent worry, not to mention there would be no room for my books or cat. Where do you even get mail? Hello?
Logic has long been my friend. Wanderlust has been, too. And there’s no situation where those two things are more at odds than when I think about selling most of what I own to Kerouac around the country until there’s a vaccine. So it’s a notion that passes quickly, quieted by convenience and soothed by what I know to be true behind the postable pics. Because I don’t just see the filter, I know that most of the time, it’s off. Maybe my day-to-day truths and views are uglier, maybe I have to stay in one place all the time. Maybe I won’t have spent all this downtime seeing the roads and mountains and natural beauty that I crave, and that sucks. But when it comes to safety, hygiene, and trusty facilities, I’m flush.