To anyone contemplating reading my blog:
I promise I am often living in the moment; day to day, week after week, and something about hours—isn’t that how Morrison put it? Nothing’s engineered just for the sake of the writing. Even the Van Plan itself originally began as a need to get the hell away from it all and stop being responsible for awhile. I really have absolutely no idea what’s out there, or what I’ll see, or how I will see it. There is no point in strategic living just for storytelling. The only important things are freedom and choices, and following those wherever they lead. So every attraction I follow, person I meet, or stupid thing that I may do will happen just because I feel like it at the time. Live first—write whatever happens later.
Found within a journal given by my dear friend Mars Bar—and made of a 33” vinyl album by the Fixx—is the beginning of the Van Plan:
Dec. 24, 2008:
“So here I am on the brink of 2009—which is the year of the Van. So far, all I’ve done is purchase my domain name (www.girlinavan.com) and lurk Craigslist in an effort to locate the perfect van.
I bought the domain name with the help of a Trip-hopper friend I met last summer (I shall call him Tripper for short). We were working in Homer, Alaska one night and I was chatting up some tech-y guys while they clicked away on laptops doing things I still don’t understand. Tripper offered to help me check out domain names and how to buy them—and I couldn’t believe that girlinavan.com was still up for grabs! It’s perfect. I hope it piques curiosity... or at least elicits a laugh. In any case, it’s mine for the next two years. Dollars well spent, I say. What can I do with two years in a Van? Phfff... What can’t I do?
Just before this lovely winter set in, I started test driving camper vans. My heart is set on an old one with a raised roof, but I’m trying to be open about it. It might be possible that all the good ones are taken though. A good friend of mine managed to pick one up (last spring perhaps?) for $1500 and it required minimal work before taking her across Canada. Lucky eh? She refuses to sell it to me still, but it’s okay because that one’s not quite right for TJ. My bed must be in the back, and my fridge must face the side doors. I require some Van Feng-shui. If I'm going to live full-time in something the size of a big walk-in closet, it's just got to be right.
The first time I test drove a van was back in October (2008), and she was perfect. Felt just like home. She was big... but not too big; beastly, but not a bad gas guzzler. Her fridge was in a good spot, the bed was comfy, and I was happy! Good van vibes all around. Unfortunately, she was ever so slightly (i.e. mega untouchably) out of my price range. My Pops and I got as far as a mechanical inspection on the Big Beast—or Bebe—as I lovingly named her (with the help of my friend Ms. Jaye), but haggling did not work out in my favour then and I wistfully left her behind.
With more quality Craigslist time I came across a ’79 Ford Econoline van in Kelowna, BC and Pops and I drove out to have a look at it one cloudy day. I thought it was great, and again I was a mild mix of happy and hopeful that this van was the van. It was retro and midnight blue and mildly exciting for a moment... but just not the right bowl of porridge for this red-head. I found the lack of windows in the back a little disturbing, and was further disturbed by its lack of a floor:
I am inside chatting up the nice young man who’s selling the blue van. Chatting people up is something that I do, and nice young men are... distracting. Pops nonchalantly motions to me.
“There’s something you should see...” He leads me outside and into the parking lot. “Now... don’t freak out.” He pulls the driver’s door open. “I don’t think you’re going to want to buy this van...” He pries up the carpet under the gas pedal and reveals a gaping, rusty hole big enough to sink my foot through! Oh. No. No!
“Holy shit,” was all I could think of to say. Disappointed? Yes. Quite. No Flintstone-style van for me though. That one didn’t really feel like home anyway. And that nice young man? We ruined his day. He hadn’t known about the hole—had never really used the van, and went from calculating sale money to pondering scrap money. As we parted ways I thanked him for the test drive and all he could dazedly say was:
‘Um... Thanks for showing me the hole.’"
Some post-Christmas time in December 2008:
Let me tell you that, besides time and money and the positive feeling that comes from being understood and widely accepted, the Van Plan sometimes causes me to sacrifice humans as well. I’m speaking of relationships, of course. All the normal kinds of human attachment.
The point of the Van Plan, as far as I can tell, is like that of a humorous vision quest. Much like disappearing into the woods and finding oneself, I guess. I don’t really plan on coming back a grown-up—as I don’t really plan anything—but I will still disappear around the continent, find out what I’m made of, and probably come back altered in some way. It might sound ridiculous to some, but luckily I have enough guts to try it anyway.
I feel a pretty deep urge to leave home behind and strike out on my own, and I’ve felt that way for a long time now. I waited this long (age 24 and counting) due to a deal I made with myself that I’d finish my degree first. After being somewhat responsible and academic, surely it’s time to be free and live on a whim, right?
I can still be surrounded by people, but the towns will be new. I’ll be visiting friends, but the homes won’t be mine. I may end up alone most of the time, but I’m okay with that. I look forward to it. This is a freedom journey of the utmost kind, and I hope that my good friend Mal (the creator of freedom journeys in all their glory) will be proud. But even right now—as I wait for next summer so that I can leave—I am taking part in the grand scheme of things. This is a journey too; waiting, and writing, and van shopping, and website-building.
New Years 2008:
Welder Number Three
(A Tale of Two Neighbours)
And here comes the part about those sacrificial humans. Oh—so painful, but it can hurt so good. I like to think that unless something stings once in awhile, I'm not really living. Surprisingly, it took me ages to realize a key future problem though: No one can get attached to me because I might roll away...literally... and by might I mean will. It’s no secret that I’m leaving to bum around North America on four wheels, and nothing's definite as to when (or if?) I’m coming back. While some men are alright not worrying about a future, others focus on a lack of tomorrows and find it impossible to enjoy me today. Not all believe it’s better to have a little than to have never had it at all, But I do. Maybe I should know better by now, but like the free and journeying Mal—I “prefer my love with reckless abandon”.
I defy any girl to ignore a gorgeously built man in a tight white t-shirt. A man that lived so close I couldn’t help but see him every day. Someone who spent the better part of each day fully within my view; tinkering with a motorcycle and sweating in the sun. I tell you honestly: I was helpless. You never think men are actually going to look like that. It’s supposed to be a myth or some characterization from a book, but once in awhile Fruit of the Loom can look that good, and even though I knew I was leaving soon, I didn’t really give a damn. Carpe diem, man. All the way.
I have never once wavered from the Van Plan, but I admit to being mildly distracted at times. The Van will always steal me away again though. True love is like that, I guess. So onward Mal! The freedom journey continues.
Present Day Update:
Ironically, I ended up buying that perfect Van from last October. After all those months and all that shopping, I went back to the one my guts told me I should have and I shelled out the extra money. Life’s too short anyway, right? So now I own the only Van that felt good to me. She’s still named Bebe, and she’s the prettiest piece of tin I’ve ever seen. She’s had me worried a few times since April when I bought her—had her carburetor troubles and her crummy moods, but all in all I think we’re good friends. I have a little faith that she’ll take me where I need to go... or at least halfway there. Now on to Jasper... and to explaining where I’ve been for the past few months:
The Jasper Journal
Oh the tales of Jasper—a tiny Alberta mountain town where just about anyone can walk into your store and tell you a story. I feel exceedingly lucky to have met the random and interesting folks who wandered into the gift store I did time at. Using the ever handy six-degrees-of-separation rule, I have had faint brushes with Keith Richards, Maggie May, Emily Carr, and myself in about three or four more decades. Read on and I’ll try to explain what I mean:
July 5th, 2009:
It’s the end of my first day of work in the tiny little tourist town of Jasper, Alberta, and I am thrilled to once again reflect on the stories I can hear and the people I can meet just by stopping to chat—and taking a moment to really listen. A perfectly normal looking man came into the store today and stood admiring an eight hundred dollar leather coat. As per some ridiculous retail training, I had to walk over and begin discussing the coat with him. I always dislike doing this part. He’s not going to buy the coat. I don’t want to try and sell him the coat. I’m a terrible liar, which in turn makes me a crummy salesman. When I ask someone how their day is going, it’s because I want to know... Not because I’m selling something. And who in their right mind would want an eight hundred dollar leather coat that’s covered in beaded fringe and weighs enough to feel like wearing another small person? Ugh.
Most people glance at the price tag and walk away, but this man stood awhile to chat with me and ran his fingers along the fringe that hung from empty shoulders.
“You know, I used to work for Trudeau,” he said. “And I always used to admire his.” Yeah right. Inwardly I disbelieve a little. I’ve always had a soft spot for Rod Stewart because of the way he sang about Maggie May. She places tenth on my mental list of favourite songs, but because there’s an alleged Trudeau in a rock ‘n’ roll song, they seem like untouchable people—and what are the odds this ordinary looking man once ran in their circles?
“Yeah? Then what was Maggie May like?” I asked this with a big grin and continuing scepticism.
“She was great. I sold my house to Maggie May.” He looked a little wistful... but his wife came up behind him and ruined the moment just in time:
“She was crazy as a loon!”
Well I’ll be damned.
And last night when I moved into the staff apartment, I fleetingly encountered a woman who was moving out just as I was moving in. During a four-minute foyer exchange she asked what I would do when the Van Plan was over, and I explained my pipe dream of a cabin by the sea somewhere near Sechelt, BC. I may or may not have heard a rumour Joni Mitchell lives there (my love for Ms. Mitchell makes a lot more sense if you’ve checked out some of the writing on my works page), and I said as much to the woman and her suitcases. She replied that she was also from Sechelt and regularly ran into Joni Mitchell while working at a hotel near the beach. Whaaaat? Really?
She told me this as if it was no big deal. So now I’m sitting on an aging single mattress that smells of other people and I’m thinking about her and about the man who sold the roof under which Maggie May would live—who was close enough to admire the fringe on Pierre’s leather jacket. How do these people live such lives, and why are their average moments so miraculous to me? And who will I meet some day? And when will I brush against greatness?
July 19th-ish, 2009: (Apparently I have better things to do than write down exact dates... or fold my socks in matching bundles)
Again I have to wonder about the power of sincere conversation... even if it’s just casual. Often, it leads to advice or an opportunity that makes my days great and my memories interesting. I take up everyone on every invitation given. I certainly wouldn’t want to miss a chance for fun or a way to feel alive.
Tonight at work I met a great couple from Southern California. I told them I loved California and had a Van Plan, and that I wanted to spend a fair bit of Van time there this winter (No more snow for this Canadian!), but presently I’ve only been as far south as Santa Cruz.
“Oh well that’s a good part,” the woman said to me. “We’re from Joshua Tree. Have you heard of it?”
Had I heard of Joshua Tree? Seriously? I think my mouth fell open... “Isn’t that where Keith Richards and a few others got high and burned Gram Parsons’ body in an illegal funeral tribute?” I asked this a little breathlessly. I’m a complete rock ‘n’ roll nerd—fanatical at times—and these people lived near a little piece of holy land.
“That’s right!” They both answered appreciatively and I babbled aloud some intense wishful thinking about someday being able to see the Tree.
“Well, you should come down during your winter,” said the woman’s husband.
“Oh! I have something for you then,” said the woman simultaneously, and she knelt on the floor in front of the cash register and dug around in her backpack. She came up with a little wrapped packet of postcards. “I’m a photographer. Our address is on the back. Call us when you get there. I can show you the exact spot!” I’m speechless then.
Oh hell yeah! I’m going to stand on the spot where Keith Richards lit somebody on FIRE! And I will record this—videotape it, write about it, closely inspect it, and possibly roll around on it a little while singing quietly to myself. And then I will cross it off my bucket list of rock ‘n’ roll-related things to see, hear, and touch inappropriately before I die. Revel in the kindness of strangers! This particular Tree invitation was given without so much as a name exchanged at first, and that sort of kindness and enthusiasm always blows my mind a little. Winter down south is beginning to look fantastic, and I won’t even cross the border for another four months. I’m a hell of a long way from California here in Jasper, but little snapshots of Joshua Tree are taped to my writing desk. For inspiration, I guess.
About a week later:
More casual small talk at work tonight. I’m supposed to be selling things but it’s way more interesting to talk to people as if they’re individuals and not just walking wallets. A man came into the store this evening and asked where I was from. He’d never heard of Kamloops, and asked how to pronounce it, spell it, and find it on a map. Not having anything better to do, I doodled a map of BC on the back of a brochure about Jasper and ended up explaining my presence in Alberta and the upcoming Van Plan. He was from New Orleans, and it’s one of my greatest wishes to see that city in the Van.
“You have to come to New Orleans,” he implored. “Do you like jazz?”
“It’s at the top of my list, and yes. I enjoy Howlin’ Wolf a lot.”
“Honey,” he said to me. “Once you’ve been to New Orleans you’ll say ‘That ain’t jazz’. I’m going to make you a list of what you’ll need to listen to before you get to New Orleans. You’ll need to prepare.” Finally! Studying that sounds fun! He stood at the cash register with me and started scribbling on some receipt paper.
“Vous Parlez-Francais?” he asked. It’s terribly West Coast [of Canada] of me not to speak a lot of French, and I regret not paying attention in eighth grade. “No? Okay... you’ll want to listen to a lot of Louis Armstrong. And when you’ve done that, you’ll want to listen to the duets between Louis and Ella. You know Ella Fitzgerald?”
“You’ll want to go to the Snog Harbour Jazz Club, just steps away from the French Quarter. You know where that is?” Absolutely not... at the moment, but I will absolutely find it when I get there. “I go there three times a week myself,” he said. “And if you go on your first night in town, you’ll be back at least three times too.” I’m aiming to be in Snog Harbour by March. Look out, Louisiana.
End of July-ish:
I think my favourite customer encounter so far happened this very week. I think I saw myself in forty years, and man was I cool. This silver-haired lady in a really bitchin’ trench coat breezed into the store a few days ago and stood admiring “Trudeau’s” coat. She had a big colourful scarf and might as well have had artsy written all over her. I walked over to greet her and instead of trying to sell her the coat, I told her the story of the Trudeau man from my first day of work. I very much enjoy telling true stories, as I’m sure you know by now. She listened with interest and I finished by confiding that Maggie was tenth on my list.
“You have a top ten list of favourite songs?” She sounded friendly yet incredulous.
“Yep. Ten.”
“Wow, there are so many great songs out there I’m not sure I could narrow it down that way. What’s number one?”
“Bittersweet Symphony by the Verve.”
“Ohhh! I LOVE that song too!” she said. I feel I have to mention that each time she said the word ‘love’ or got excited by something she seemed to move to the words—to pitch forward in a slow head-bang and speak with real enthusiasm.
“Did you know there’s a rumour the background tune’s sampled from an unreleased Stones song?” I am a fountain of useless rock knowledge and I will let it flow on just about any sympathetic ear.
“Really? I didn’t know that... So, what’s your second favourite song?”
“Tangerines by Led Zep.”
“Oh! I LOVE Led Zeppelin!” Another head bang. I was beginning to love her. I could have talked to her all day. These are the moments wherein I wish I could chat endlessly with certain people without things like work getting in the way. If only all customers during long retail afternoons were as entertaining as this awesome lady was. Word to the wise: if you can capture a moment of joy at work, don’t let it end. Just don’t. Even if you risk trouble, the bigger picture demands that life and all its interesting encounters be pursued more than just once in awhile. Live a little.
I now believe that some day, I will make one radical grown-up, and hopefully many people are still gonna love me when I’m 64.
First week in August
Once again, a perfectly normal-looking tourist (who shall remain completely anonymous in their present form, as I remember promising not to give them away) came into the gift store today and struck up a conversation with me. It’s always the plainest of people (in manner, not looks!) that surprise me with their life stories. Tales of famous names or past adventures that you’d never guess could happen just by looking at someone. This person today asked what I was doing in Jasper, and I ended up explaining the Van Plan, and the working, and the saving up of money.
They told me they had a story for me—that I should enjoy this story because it involved Emily Carr (a horribly well-known Canadian artist and writer) and she, too, spent a lot of time in “caravans” [camper vans]. They said they wanted to share their story with me because it involved a sense of adventure that was similar to mine, and because “famous people were often adventurers.”
This person grew up in a small community on Vancouver Island in BC, and near that community sat an old and seemingly abandoned cabin. It was that cabin that became the storyteller’s secret place when they were young. They would go in to play and to absorb the solitude—to enjoy the fact that the cabin was left much as it probably used to be. Cups and plates still lay around, as if the former occupant suddenly left one day and everything stayed the way they left it long ago.
As an adult (a few decades later), this person went back to the community and gave a group of children a tour of the very neighbourhood where the cabin still sat—even more unkempt looking than before. They knocked on various doors asking homeowners for information about local architecture and stories about who’d lived in the area long ago. Behind one particular door—just down the street from the little cabin—was a lady who assumed her reputation preceded her, and that it was her (and not her home) that drew the attention of my storyteller.
After knocking at this door, the lady behind it said, “Well, I guess you can come in.” And after giving the tour group a quick look around the home, she said, “Well... I guess you can come back and have tea with me some time.” The person relating this story to me had no idea who this lady was, and why they should want to have tea with her.
“Don’t you know who I am?” the lady asked. My storyteller told me they remained clueless and the lady revealed herself to be Susan Musgrave (a very well-known Canadian writer/poet/novelist etc). The person telling me this tale then said they pointed down the street to the little old cabin and told Musgrave they’d really always liked that other house down the road, and Musgrave agreed. She told this person that she’d also loved that cabin, and had put in a bid on it but hadn’t won the property. When she revealed the amount of the bid, my storyteller was astounded and asked why anyone would want to bid so many thousands for such a small old shack. My storyteller was again looked at with incredulity.
“Don’t you know whose place that was?” Musgrave asked them. She then explained the little cabin had belonged to Emily Carr and had been some sort of private place Carr often retreated to. My storyteller told me they looked up the facts later and discovered that, after Carr’s death in 1945, the cabin was left to a surviving sister in the hopes it would be preserved exactly as Carr had left it. No one ever knew a certain child had played there; had moved things around and used it as their own secret retreat. No one ever told this child not to go there. No one bothered them, or probably even noticed. But now the cabin isn’t like Carr left it, and hasn’t been for a long time... and only this person that told me their story knows how it really used to be.
“I used to joke,” said the storyteller at the end. “That the people in that community never sent me away because they thought I was [Emily Carr’s] spirit!”
So here’s to caravan adventures and a sense of secret joy. It’s amazing what some people will tell you if you just stop to listen awhile.
(And that's the whole pre-game show. The real adventure starts in about two more weeks on the Van Blog page. Read on, and keep in touch everyone!)
