by Haley Young
“It’s just that you don’t seem that adventurous,” said an acquaintance when I told her about our plans to move into a converted camper van.
I smiled. She wasn’t wrong about my personality. She was wrong in her assumption that living on the road demands the highest level of adventurous spirit. Two years into travelling full time, I’m more of a homebody than ever.
I just take my house with me.
Leaving New York City is melancholy even though we’re the ones making the decision. How much falafel can I consume in a five-day period, anyway? We’re ready to move on—Maine beckons, the rocky coast stands tall, I remember there are hiking trails where we can actually work our calf muscles—yet I’m reluctant to drive off. My eyes linger on tall buildings I never expected to love.
When we get to Portland, I’ll feel at home along the water. We will wave at toddlers in strollers wearing too-big beanies against the morning chill then running barefoot six hours later in the sun. We will daydream about this possible future—scan through apartments, casually check our budget spreadsheet, wonder aloud what it would be like to go on the same jog every morning—how long until we got sick of the repetition?
At our next dispersed campsite I will recall that my dog and I are meant to be forest creatures. She will pounce like a fox, I will build a campfire, my partner will make mochas with too much (no such thing) homemade whipped cream. I will nap in dappled sunlight with bed doors thrown open—Scout will sprawl on her side, dirt caking her muzzle, and reluctantly let us check her for ticks when she comes back in. I’ll take photos of my morning coffee and close my eyes and think we could do this forever. Me and my favorite creatures. How somewhere they make “nowhere” feel.
I’ve learned traveling full time means leaving parts of myself all over the country. I scatter them to the wind and road and subway; I give pieces to new cities, offer bites to strangers in coffee shops, bury thoughts on public land, tuck them beneath park benches. I leave drips of tahini on New York sidewalks and footprints on Outer Banks sand and tiny heartstrings everywhere Sean has held my hand.
I write poems parked on narrow side roads, read aloud on uneven grass, perform physical therapy exercises wherever there’s room. Scout plays tug-of-war on Manhattan streets and deserted beaches at sunrise and sunset, pees on the sidewalk when she has to, rolls in the earth whenever she can. We move almost constantly—there’s so much else to see—yet rarely feel unsettled. How is that possible?
Perhaps I’ve become adventurous to my acquaintance’s standards now that we’ve lived nomadically for so long. Or perhaps having everything within reach simply allows me to masquerade as more resilient. I am a shelled creature carrying shelter around, always ready to retreat—but because of its security always poking my head out in the first place.
Traveling in a van lets me see corners of the world I otherwise wouldn’t. “Are you locals?” we’re sometimes asked as we explore a town’s edges. “Do you live in the neighborhood?” a Red Hook bartender wondered just last night. “I haven’t seen you before, but tourists usually don’t come here.”
Every city we visit becomes ours if we stay there long enough. Is that greedy? Are we delusional? Or is home wherever Sean squinty-grins and our cattle dog presses her nose to my skin? The terrain may be novel, but the comfort of our familiarity—note the root of that word—lets us jump without hesitation.
So I tuck our composting toilet’s pee jug in a tote bag, hoping to be discreet, and carefully empty it in a public porta potty. This doesn’t bother me. I put thick covers on our windows before bed so the streetlights can’t keep us awake, just like drawing curtains in a “real” house—and in the morning we make coffee, kettle atop small stove, cream poured from tiny fridge.
Sometimes I cry with longing for a hot bath. When I stretch my arms above my head at night, they hit the wall and force my feet against the other side, reminding me I am confined.
But I feel free.
I get to choose these challenges. On neighboring days I am a city woman and a dirtbag adventurer and a small town door holder, and each of those identities feels right.
© Haley Young
Haley Young (she/her) is a freelance writer and full-time traveller. She lives in a yellow campervan with her partner and blue heeler, always searching for the next small joy. Her work has been published in ROVA Magazine, Juniper Magazine, Kinship Pets, and more. You can find her at haleyeyoung.com and on Instagram @paws.andreflect.
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