A mosquito’s high turbo whine pierced through my slumber. It persisted despite my thrashing hands, each assault lifting me up out of that valley of sleep only to be lulled back by the intervening silence. Eventually it was morning, the light seeping in around my makeshift curtains, outlining the boxes and bags around me. I’d need a mosquito net. Maybe a couple battery-operated fans — I’d read mosquitoes can be deterred by even a 15 mph wind. But for the moment, I’d have to tolerate their incessant pestering.

Arlo, curled on the passenger seat, sensed I was awake. He peered around the divider, ears alert, waiting for the familiar cues that presaged his usual routine: a morning scratch, walk, breakfast. Would I even be city car camping if not for his constant companionship?

I adopted him twelve years ago. He was my third foster, after another Catahoula, Motley already bound for adoption, and a year-old boxer—name forgotten — who died unexpectedly of a heart attack while at the vet’s.

My friend, Anne, dropped off Arlo (née Bob Barker) after picking him up from the Pennsylvania turnpike. He’s yours if you want him, she said. No one had dibs on him yet, like they’d had with Motley. I wasn’t convinced though. I’d never owned a dog before and my perfect archetype had his hunter’s body, but a black nose, maybe brown eyes instead of his fair nose and amber eyes. He looked strange, maybe even rather ugly.

But I knew he was mine that first night when I spritzed him with a water bottle and he stopped whining for Anne. A complete communication. I’d expressed disapproval and he’d taken the hint. He looked at me with those sad puppy eyes, a small kernel of understanding taking root. That kernel bloomed (germinated?) into unquestioning loyalty, a mutual simpatico. He looked to me when he was nervous, leaned on me for comfort, and I took comfort from his depending on me.

So I gave the okay, and he hopped off the passenger seat, up onto my sleeping platform, and plopped next to me for a morning snuggle before we faced the day.

Those first few days, I boondocked near a playground by the north Brooklyn waterfront. Each morning, I rose with the sun and crawled out of the van sheepishly, like an underground troll trying to blend in among the freshly scrubbed fairies. I filled my water bottles at the park, showered at the Y, brushed my teeth at a coffeeshop after my morning coffee and a breakfast of granola. I found a cafe that offered a dollar-twenty-five cup when I brought my own mug — the savings barely offsetting the expense of takeout sandwiches and dinners since I hadn’t set up a proper kitchen in the van. Not that I had room for anything like that.

View of Manhattan from Greenpoint

Afternoons were spent in the park or at a coffeeshop with wifi, where I scrolled job listings, mapped out my route, planned final get-togethers. There was little energy left for the writing I thought I’d accomplish. Evenings I washed up at bars, brushed my teeth under filthy dim lights, and wondered if I should just admit to myself that I was basically homeless.

Bar bathroom brushing

One night, a guy walked in on me at a bar bathroom, while I had my shirt off. It was a hot day and a paper towel bath seemed in order. I’d left my shirt off while I brushed my teeth and charged my phone. I heard the music get louder and turned toward the sound. Crap. I’d forgotten to lock the door. The guy, startled, shut it quickly, mumbling an apology. The embarrassment singed, but I also wondered what he thought. Was he weirded out, embarrassed, sympathetic? Did I look like some down-and-out vagrant? A gutter punk who didn’t give a shit? Was he regaling his buddies at this very moment, “You’re not going to believe what I just saw.”

Regardless, I walked out, head held high. What did it matter?

In this big wide world, there were worse things than being half naked in a semi-public bathroom brushing your teeth and trying to get by.

After my evening routine, I’d crash onto my pillow burrito exhausted. Having to fetch water and take care of my basic biological needs outside a regular home took way longer and more energy than I’d anticipated. So this was why third-world citizens couldn’t get ahead. Who had time to read and learn when they spent all their energy just trying to get a drink of water?

Sleep was a mental dance. Ignore the mosquitoes. No, you don’t have to pee. Only drink enough water to wet mouth, but not enough that it would actually filter down to your bladder. Too hot, too cold. Feet out. No, in, because of the mosquitoes.

At some point, I reorganized, purged a bit more, gave myself a little more thinking room. But what I really needed was to get out of the city, to see how this vandwelling worked elsewhere and also test the van’s viability on a shorter trip before I headed west. So I booked an RV campsite in Montauk, which lay at the easternmost tip of Long Island, a three hours’ drive from Brooklyn. A beach town made sense for a van lifestyle. Even if it was a rather ritzy beach town.

I filled the diesel tank en route. Only then realizing that gas and diesel prices had flip flopped since I last owned a diesel car. While diesel had been the cheaper fuel then, it was now the pricier one. I hadn’t known exactly how much more, so after I filled up at one station, I saw that it was a dollar cheaper everywhere else. Because of course.

Next, groceries. I turned in to the first store I passed. Something familiar, a Trader Joe’s, but not my first choice. I rather loathed the place for its plastic obsession. Everything came pre-packaged, ready to cook, perhaps for people who liked to cook, but needed things to be uncomplicated and spelled out. I was only there to buy dry goods anyway (granola, dried fruit, nuts, coffee), so I felt slightly less guilty about my carbon footprint.

By the time I reached the campground, after a late departure and all my excursions, it was well past dark and the sentry had left for the day. I pulled into the parking lot opposite the only other vehicle in the lot, a white Vanagon, curtains drawn, surfboards resting on its roof—a slight needle of envy piercing my reverie.

Once parked, I debated what to do. I didn’t want to get in trouble for trespassing, but I was too tired to keep driving. I felt like I always did when I felt afraid of coming up against authority, like a kid who knew she was in the wrong, but incapable of changing course. But there wasn’t anyone else around to ask, and I had no cell service to look up alternatives anyway. Sleep beckoned. I had no choice.

Come morning, no one even noticed that I was there early. While I waited for the clerk to arrive so I could check in, I showered, had breakfast, fed Arlo. When they finally did arrive, two hours late, I found that I’d miss my reservation start date by two days so I only had one night left to actually make use of my site (cut short by those two hours!).

It was a a grassy plot lined with shrubs, behind which grassy dunes dropped down to the beach. The neighboring site showed signs of life: wetsuits drying, a picnic table littered with bottles and burger bun bags. A grill. Tents, zipped. I imagined little clouds of snores filling them and puffing them up.

Arlo whined with excitement and leapt down with glee. The morning sun was breaking through clouds, a cool breeze floated up from the ocean. The perfect day to… reorganize some more! I pulled out the topmost boxes in the van and surveyed my belongings. My brain had been in overdrive the past few days trying to make sense of the chaos. Two hours later, with things a bit more in order, walking along the beach, I finally felt like I could relax for the first time since I began the move out. So what if I was somewhat homeless. So what if my roommate wasn’t returning my security deposit that I was really counting on, so what if I was unemployed. I could still appreciate this moment.

This, here, now, feet on wet sand, dog galloping wild, breezy and sunny, felt pretty nice.

The next day I ventured into town. I stopped in at a low key restaurant bar and treated myself to beer and hot food—fried zucchini. Not what I’d needed to supplement my all carb and nut diet, but still a welcome enough break. At another bar, I serendipitously met Vaughan Cutillo, one of the partners of Montauk Brewing Company, a rare brand I thought would be cool to have as a sponsor because their beers are good and their branding is spot on.

Here drinking the Watermelon Session Ale, home of my first beer sponsor

That night, my reservation up, I boondocked on a quiet street near a public bathroom and headed back home the next day. Even though I wished I’d gotten to my campsite on time, I didn’t feel any need to stay longer. I’d gained a little bit of serenity and a fresh perspective on my strange new life. Yes, it was weird, but it was going to be worth figuring out.

Hey, if you enjoyed reading this, please support my writing! I accept tips here. Thanks!