I’m at the point where I just want to leave. I’m fussing more than I need to. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, and anything I’m missing I can buy on the road or order from Amazon once I’m settled somewhere for more than two days. I don’t need more clothes—I’m planning to do laundry (and have done so). I am, at least, set off clean. My packing seems fine, and I’m starting to internalize where everything is stashed. I’m still sorting out what needs to be easy to grab versus what can stay buried until needed. I expect that will shift around the edges as I travel.

I grew up in a camping family. First was a trip through Europe when I was too young to remember much except riding in the backseat on top of the suitcases. Whenever I ride in an antique Studebaker wagon with its stadium seating, I think of that trip. We once picked up a hitchhiker, which made my father furious when the man didn’t offer to buy us kids ice cream. We did spend a day at an Italian beach and all got sunburned.

Next came a trip across the United States from San Francisco to Pittsburgh, PA—always said as though it were one name, like Joe Smith, as if the fifteen other Pittsburg(h)s might confuse people. We bought everything for that trip in a single outing to Sears Roebuck: tent, Coleman stove, sleeping bags, inflatable air mattresses, cooking gear, beach towels, and two camp chairs. It all went into the Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser with its sloping rear glass. We were three and three: father driving, baby brother, and mother navigating in the front; me, my middle brother, and sister on the backseat. I don’t recall using the roof rack, but imagining the suitcases fitting without putting camp gear on top seems impossible now. I don’t remember rain while we were driving, though I do remember rain while camping—maybe in Maine, on the cold Atlantic. some years later.

Back then, we all slept in the tent, except I had the comparative luxury of sleeping in the back of the station wagon with the rear seat laid flat. Later, when we upgraded to a pop-up trailer, I was a teenager and was still assigned the back of the wagon, now outfitted with bug screens held on by magnets. I remember rainy days and the constant struggle for shelter and privacy.

We’d begun our summer holidays returning to the same place year after year—hot, with a beach. My father loved it. He’d go offshore fishing long after the rest of us had tired of the diesel stink and bait, the electric reels that sometimes shorted and shocked the angler, the tangle of lines when the boat swung and fishermen on opposite rails hooked each other. He liked to fish for the table, but most often stopped at the fish market on the way home.

So—am I camping now? This converted van, a Class B in RV terms, has a propane heater, a galley with a granite counter better than the kitchen in my last sticks-and-bricks house, a double-burner stove, refrigerator/freezer, hot water heater, shower, toilet, and a living area that serves as dining room, and beds for both me and Wilson. In design theory, the cab seats are part of the living space, but in practice they’re just for driving and temporary storage.

The habits from childhood camping die hard. I’ve devised a complicated water system that I justify as a health precaution: potable water in a separate jug, a filter carafe I refill morning and evening, and almost no use of onboard water. But I’ve been staying in places with dishwashing sinks and nearby bathrooms and showers so the onboard water system is dunnage. Practices may change on the road, but some are ingrained—brushing teeth from a plastic cup and spitting into the vegetation happens automatically.

The biggest change—and hassle—compared to those early days is personal electronics. Back then, a flashlight or a Coleman lamp with pump, resulting hiss, and mantle was essential. Today the van has lighting everywhere, from overhead to personal reading spots. But being an older rig, it lacks the USB ports newer vans scatter like candy. Keeping the phone, tablet, and smartwatch charged is a management headache. At home it was easy, but I resist adopting those routines here. I know why: AC-to-DC conversion overhead, the anxiety about draining the batteries, or simply the shift in environment that demands different behaviors. John Dewey wrote about how we adapt to machines, and how those interactions become a kind of language. Maybe that’s what I’m working out now. Just learning a new language.