Missed Connections
I’m parked on the quieter side of a coastal car park, the one further away from the loo. Partly that’s because I prefer the quiet side of life, partly because my bus is so much bigger than the vans which crowd the other side. And yes, I’ll admit my nomadic snobbery… partly because I’m not a holiday nomad like almost all the rest.
There are times when hanging out with other nomads (temporary or otherwise) is wonderful. And there are times when you just can’t handle yet another ‘so what’s the best place to go here?’ conversation with yet more German, French, British accents. My journey hasn’t ever been about ‘the best places to go’, a cartographic tick box full of blanks to be completed. Yes I’ve seen some amazing places and yes I’m happy to be the local knowledge resource, but not all the time. Sometimes I just want to be at home, doing home things or trying to get some work done without distraction, not an always-open tourist advisory centre.
There’s a downside to this distancing, though. Sometimes, albeit very rarely, you wander through these makeshift campsites and see others also struggling with the invisible peer pressure. They want to be alone but their van doors need to be open in order to breathe. You catch glimpses of them, hear snatches of phone conversations as they reluctantly sit up in their van-swags attempting to act normal amidst the bustle of shared meals, streetcamplife. You want to reach out, let them know there’s a quiet spot just the other side where they can be other without judgement. But your invasion could so easily be just as unwelcome, just as judgemental; it’s hard to tell when a friendly grin has broken acceptable protocol.
And then there are the (even more rare) times when those other others, well, when they’re kinda cute… the kind that would merit more than one glance across the bar, if either of you chose to replace the great outdoors with the latest cattle market venue. But this life ain’t no cattle market, even if our knickers are just as visible (albeit hanging off a makeshift roof-laundry). It’s an odd oxymoron that a life lived so publicly comes with such a respect of privacy. I want to declare my membership of this tribe, let them know I’m not another early morning dog walker (minus dog), that I belong with them even though they can’t see my bus from here. But I don’t want to intrude. Even glancing into an open van door could be considered a breach of their personal space.
Nomadicy can get lonely, even if you do enjoy your own company and dislike crowds. Finding another nomad to fall in love with probably isn’t the smartest choice either… It’s either a random connection, ships literally passing in the night, or the expectation that if this were to be something more you’re likely to be heading in opposite directions. And if not, do you convoy (maintaining your own space but doubling the fuel) or find a place to put one of your homes while you travel together? Which home is bigger, better, faster, more convenient, lower on fuel consumption? Where do you leave the second vehicle, for how long? Does the hitchhiker take a weekend bag or all their favourite things? At least for brick-dwellers, you can be pretty sure there will still be a home to return to when the holiday romance peters out. A van parked on a quiet street for too long will soon be broken into, stolen, or reported as abandoned by suspicious locals.
Yesterday I walked past one of these kinda cute strangers, caught a sneak preview of their life as it existed in that moment. I didn’t intervene, yet my afternoon trying to work was spent fending off distractions, ‘maybe I should walk back again, this time with a water tank. Maybe that would let them know I’m like them too’. That could alert them (should they notice) that ‘I am like them’, yes. But what would tell them that ‘I like them’… at least like the look of them enough to want to feign excuse for further exploration? Would they even still be there if I walked back past? How many times can you walk past before it starts getting weird?! As a woman travelling alone you really don’t wanna open up any additional potential risks either, be they reputation (how many times have I heard ‘if the bus is a’rockin…’?) or more physical dangers.
So you ignore the distractions, focus on your work, accept that a solo life was part of this choice and that -truly- you are ok with that. And you carry on as normal, your normal. Day turns to night, you watch yet another glorious sunset drown under a fiery ocean, cook your quiet dinner, move from the lounge to the bedroom, and revel in your solitude.
And the next morning you walk back across the far side, the popular kids’ side where you have never belonged. You spot that yes the van in question is still there, doors now closed against the noisy communal breakfasting and enthusiastic crowd map reading. And you wonder if, one day, you’ll be brave enough to knock, leave a note, do something that says ‘hey, I see you here and I understand’, knowing full well that you never will. One more missed connection, a fabulous fantasy that will always keep you safe, always keep you dreaming, always keep you alone.
