Almost got Rosy stuck in the sand. She's not the speediest or most powerful thing on the road.
That's some crazy.
Back in D.C. I tended to think of time in minutes, or maybe hours. But things have changed and now hours are the small unit, and days are the larger. A three hour drive no longer seems far, and stringing a few drives together means 1,000 miles doesn't sound so tough either.
Move slowly.
The van is packed with gear, a nonsense cluster of stuff that spills out the back and leaves no doubt that someone is ... travelling in this thing. And so space is important. Two days ago I found an inch -- a single inch I could reclaim by cutting a small overhang off the bed/storage I built. Just one inch, but it meant I could completely rearrange the trunks inside.
Home, for a few days.
I worried initially that I'd brought too much stuff. This seems simultaneously obvious and absurd -- how much more can you pare down? And yet ... did I need a full kitchen?
Turns out: Yes.
Having a kitchen means having a sense of place. After spending the first days of the trip eating granola bars and canned ravioli, moving place to place, I finally landed at a site I liked on the water. So I set up the stove, pulled out my knives and cutting board and made a simple dinner. And then eggs in the morning, And it all felt a little more like home.
