Chapter 7.2 - Vanlife: The Reality Behind the Romance – Between Freedom, Simplicity, and the True Life on Wheels

Vanlife doesn’t begin with sunsets.

It begins with a dream – and a long road that first teaches you one thing: sacrifice.

At the beginning stands reduction. You start with too much. You pack everything you think you’ll “need just in case” – things that smell like home, things that promise security. And then, somewhere along the way, you realize you’ve only surrounded yourself with clutter. So you start clearing out. Again and again. And at some point, you discover: you actually need almost nothing. Comfort becomes negotiable. Convenience turns into currency.

One push of a button and coffee flows – that was before.
Now, coffee means turning on the gas, checking the water level, holding the pot steady while the wind tries to steal your morning.

Showers?

Yes. But only if there’s enough water.
And showering on the road is nothing like showering at home.

My most uncomfortable shower happened in southern France. I hadn’t washed for days. That sticky, heavy feeling on my skin had become unbearable. But it wasn’t like at home, where you just walk into your bathroom, turn on the hot water, and let warmth run down your back.

It was six degrees outside. A drizzle from the side. Wind. Mud beneath my feet. And the water in my tank – barely 25 liters – was just as ice-cold as the air. I knew I had to wash, but I also knew I couldn’t waste a drop. Water on the road is not a luxury; it’s a lifeline. You need it not only for showering, but also for cooking, coffee, dishes – and sometimes just to flush the toilet.

So there I was: freezing, naked, in the middle of nowhere. Exposed from all sides. The wind lashed against my skin as I forced myself to pour that freezing water over me. Every liter hurt. I shivered, I cursed, I laughed – simply because otherwise I would have screamed. It was always a dangerous game with the amount, always on the edge between “enough” and “too little.”

When I was finally somewhat warm again and everything packed away, I sat inside my van wrapped in towels and said to myself:
If I ever buy or rebuild another camper – it doesn’t need to have anything fancy. No luxury, no gimmicks. But a shower inside the van is non-negotiable. And if it ever should be truly luxurious – maybe even warm water. That’s all I’d ever ask for.

Power?

Electricity is no given. It’s a daily negotiation between consumption and sun. When the sun shines, the batteries live. When – as so often for me – it rains for days, you’re left with few options: start the engine, drive just to charge, or fire up the generator. You learn to stop seeing energy as background noise. It becomes something alive. Sometimes a partner. Sometimes an opponent.

Space

If you – like me – don’t have a luxury motorhome but “just a van,” every centimeter matters. Every cable, every cup, every towel has its place. And when it doesn’t, the whole rhythm collapses. It sounds trivial, but it’s a miniature war. A charging cable you toss aside one tired evening might mean chaos the next morning – you can’t find it, you step on it, you get angry. And suddenly, you realize how thin the line between order and chaos really is.

Not a Luxury Vacation on Wheels

Vanlife is not a luxury vacation on wheels.
That’s why I separate it for myself: Camping. Glamping. “Traveling with a camper.” And then there’s Vanlife.

I’ve been to many trade shows. I’ve talked to manufacturers, builders, dealerships, and big accessory companies. And honestly – the market is exploding. Since the pandemic, more and more people want exactly this: to escape, to be free, to decide where they sleep. And the market delivers. There’s something for every taste, every comfort level, every sense of safety – from all-inclusive motorhomes with satellite TV, air conditioning, and heated floors, to rolling tiny houses with fireplaces and ambient lighting. It all exists, and that’s okay. It should. There’s something for everyone.

But a copy & paste of home on four wheels isn’t Vanlife for me.
That’s traveling. That’s vacation. That’s comfort mobility. And it’s fine – but it’s not this.

Back to the Roots

Vanlife, as I mean it, is something else.

Back to the roots doesn’t mean designer wood and scented candles in your van. It means something simpler – and older. It’s closer to what happened in the ’60s and ’70s, when people took off with nothing but an old bus. Hippies, drifters, dreamers – people who had almost nothing but this tiny vehicle and the belief that the world was theirs if they just kept driving. No rolling jacuzzis. No satellite dishes. No climate control at the push of a button. They had none of that. And yet – or maybe because of it – they were happy.

The Balancing Act

It’s a constant act of balance.

You wash your dishes with as little water as possible and realize how wasteful you once were. You start listening again: to the wind. To the sun that may – or may not – feed your solar panels. To your own body telling you: today, you don’t need a pretty Instagram spot. You need safety. Rest. Shelter.

In this simplicity lies something that’s almost lost in our homes: honesty.

Vanlife is the practice of modesty – not because minimalism is trendy, but because otherwise, you simply wouldn’t manage.

And then something strange happens, once you truly surrender to this dance with the elements:
What first feels like “less” slowly turns into “more.”

More clarity. 

More awareness. 

More closeness to yourself.

The “I need” grows smaller. 

The “I am” grows stronger.

This is the first truth behind the romance:

You give up comfort – and find yourself in return.

            Welcome on Board