I love my van. I really do.
Oscar is home, adventure, and freedom on wheels. But after months of living in 72 square feet, stepping into a real house for a weekend felt like I’d checked into a five-star hotel, especially when it came with a temporary roommate named Murphy.
Murphy is my brother’s dog, all wagging tail and soulful eyes. I was technically “house sitting,” but really I was Murphy’s weekend sidekick. We went on walks, shared the couch, and she watched me cook like I was the most fascinating reality show on TV (which it’s been a while since I was in a real kitchen, I probably looked so amazed.)
The shift from van life to house life is subtle but powerful. In the van, every action is part of a mental puzzle: where will I park tonight? Did I leave enough battery power for the fan? How can I make coffee without sending half the grounds onto the floor? Even things as small as chopping food mean working in a space where the counter is also the stovetop, which is also where I store things on top of.
That weekend, all of that fell away. I sprawled on a couch without my feet hanging off. I took long showers without turning the water off between shampoo and conditioner. I cooked dinner on a real stove, on a counter that didn’t slide away with every movement. And in the background, there was Murphy, thumping her tail against the floor, happy just to be nearby.
The quiet luxury wasn’t about fancy things. It was about stillness. About having a door I could shut without wondering if it was locked from the outside. About waking up and not having to mentally calculate my water supply, my battery life, or the next safe place to park.
By Monday night, I felt like I’d been gone for a week. I stepped back into Oscar with a fresh mind, a little more appreciation for the comforts I don’t always have, and the reminder that taking a break isn’t stepping away from the life I’ve built. It’s giving myself the space to enjoy it even more.
Turns out, even nomads need a break from the road sometimes.