for the love of a van

No, I still haven't written about the fiasco that was to be our first van purchase – the camper that would have taken us across the country with shit for karma. If there is a saint of screwed up vehicle transactions, then his or her image must have been swinging from the rear view on this baby.

But why would I want to tell you about the people who lied, who made my son cry, whom I threatened with various legal actions and a few other thigns before they returned our money, when I can tell you about the van we did buy. The happy van. The one currently getting a facelift, due back in another day, if the mechanic is willing to part with it, that is. He seems kind of attached.

Here's what I hear on a daily basis now: “I'm so jealous!” Even my acupuncturist, a sweet, reserved Danish woman, when I told her we were driving across the U.S. in the van, stared at me for just a beat before her composure broke. “I've always wanted to do that,” she whispered.

Deciding to bring a wee bit of California with us when we charge east, we bought a VW pop-up camper bus. The whole of the west coast is drooling in envy and the whole of the mid-section of the country will hold us in suspicion and most of the east coast will likely just roll their collective eyes, the in-laws in particular should be fully convinced of our insanity, in case we had any chance left at redemption.

When we got married in Monterey almost 10 years ago, we thought it'd be funny if our guests threw granola when we emerged after the ceremony. You know, “crunchy,” “granola,” “California.” My father-in-law, thinking the mapley nuts and oats tied in small silk bags a snack, ate his. Some people just aren't up for a joke.

We hit the road in 42 days.