☼ Nebraska to California ☼
The middle and the coast
Some middle aged Nebraskans we met earlier on in our journey were adamant that California had gone to the dogs. Don’t go there, no way, they were convinced it was a place of nightmares. We had just pulled off of I 80 somewhere in the centre of Nebraska and rolled into a lakeside park up that gently sloped into a manmade lake which cooled a coal fired power plant. Serene apart from the chimneys billowing in the distance.
The air was hot and the ground dry. As jumped out of the van I landed on a bindi weed which reminded me instantly of time spent down under. The climate and flora too reminded me of Australia, insanely hot and sticky and eucalyptus trees surrounded our van, towering above like a bowl that created shade. The environment played it cards wise every time. A gorgeous oasis like area which was littered with these painful foot destroyers.
The locals who had made this park up their domicile, waddled over in earnest. They waved hands and as they came closer their voices begun to rise in volume. We were duly invited to float around the lake on their pontoon boat, drink beers and listen to music. My partner and I agreed and off we went. Through the front gate on the pontoon and onto a plush carpet lined floor of the boat. I thought it was a little weird to have carpet on a boat but this was Nebraska and it seemed everything had its own milieu.
As we cruised the enormity of the lake became evident in front of us. I remember hoping this invite wasn’t a front to steal our van or something, but I knew that I was just being semi-paranoid. These people were friendly, a world apart from us, but friendly. They offered us beers and snacks aplenty and talked to us about the ostensible differences between the atlantic nations, I and them called home. My obvious lack of patriotism determined that I was bound to listen for the next hour or two. I occasionally chimed in a yeah or something now and then agreeing to fairly decadent and obscene statements about travelling and paying for a little Mexicans to get drinks while on holiday to Cancun.
At the bow sat a bucket hatted gentleman. His skin deep with cracks and signs of sun exposure. Smoking away on a cigarette he looked out into the distance where the glassy surfaces of the lake met the treeline and said, it’ll be sad to trade this for Arizona soon. Will, his name, originally from upstate New York had made the pilgrimage annually to Arizona, where he wintered. Like a migrating bird he mentioned moving about like it was part of his life. Rather than something he adopted. All of us van lifers felt like that. The gulf in personal attributes, social and financial outlooks, between me and these people were totally negated by the fact that we all wanted to be free to travel.
As the sun progressed its downward journey into the horizon we stopped at the opposite end of the lake. Everyone bar my partner and I were lubricated, having drank a good few beers. The lack of an onboard toilet became evident quickly. Golden hour was just about to start manifesting itself upon this patch of land they called Nebraska. It could have been anywhere and it would have been beautiful. They kept calling it god’s country. you can see both the sunrise and sunset unimpeded here was a phrase that was repeated several times on this boat trip. I was certain that, if god did exist, he’d likely make somewhere else his country.
Fifteen hundred miles west and the sky and sea blended into one. Skies were gloomy and grey and lacked a distinct warmth that I had anticipated. Maybe it had all gone to the dogs. The scorch had died off though which was a relief and there seemed to be some respite from the incendiary opinions. But the persistence of older vandwellers was ostensible. Especially in regard to finding a free place to rest their heads.
A guy we met just outside of Ventura, offered us a free straight swap for our van for his 50ft bus. There seemed to be a distinctive lack of understanding that dwelling in a van had always meant living minimally. Parking such a huge vehicle, for free, in California, was tough. I have never done it but finding somewhere safe and quiet to park without pissing of the locals was tough in a small builders van like ours.
It was nice to be anonymous again. Driving into such a populous state after having spent so much time in sparsely populated areas was refreshing - bar the obvious horrendous traffic. I had never enjoyed spending time in super populated areas but the key to an interesting life was change and variety. I still hadn’t seen any evidence of California going to the dogs. To me it seemed rather welcoming. It was warm, there were waves and as a long estranged Brit it wasn’t pouring with rain. How much worse could it get?
Living in a van exposes you to all walks of life. Some that wanted to spend much less and live cheaply, some that didn’t want to work, some that worked and saved all their cash and some I felt like had no aim whatsoever and just cruised around finding cool spots. I always thought people lived in vans because they were priced out of the housing market but in my experience I am not sure how true that is. In general it seems that people prefered living this way because it allows them freedom from spending excessive time to pay for the things you don’t need.
I also learnt to not listen to people with opinions on places they had spent little time in. Going there and forming your own opinions was still the most surefire way of finding out and galvanising your own thoughts and opinions. While I haven’t been invited onto boats or been fed meatballs my time in California so has been fun and welcoming.
Thanks for following along as usual.