SAN JOSE — My sister thinks I’m crazy. So does my tax guy. They might be right, but it’s way too late now.
I’ve already drained my retirement fund, bought a big white cargo van and hired two brothers from Idaho to turn a 2018 Ford Transit into my future home, the only one I’ve ever owned.
Like many in the Bay Area, I’ve been priced out of one of the most expensive housing markets in the nation. Sure, I could move someplace cheaper. But I tried leaving coastal California years ago, and after 17 months in Kansas City and St. Paul, I couldn’t get back here fast enough.
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To stay, I’ve made a radical decision: I’m going to join the #vanlife movement, an offshoot of the iconic VW bus craze of the 60s and 70s that, thanks to social media and the housing shortage, is attracting new vehicles and new people, from gig economy millennials and airline pilots to families and single retirees.
I’m hardly the only one in the Bay Area and beyond who’s decided to go house-less so I can avoid spending most of my income on shelter, remain based in a community where I have close ties and actually have money to travel when I retire.
The median price of a Bay Area home keeps getting further and further out of reach for many. At $920,000, it’s already more than double what it was six years ago. And with average rents for a one bedroom in San Jose clocking in at $2,266 a month, a growing number of people seem to be turning to alternative housing on wheels, from RVs and tiny houses on flatbed trailers, to school buses, trucks, vans and even converted ambulances.
When I share what I’m planning, some immediately think of the RVs that line El Camino Real where people who can’t find any other shelter park and do battle with neighbors and police. Parking is one of the biggest challenges of van life, particularly in California where most cities prohibit sleeping in your vehicle. But there are legal options, from campgrounds and Walmart lots to renting space on private land. I don’t yet know where I’ll be parking regularly but I’ll be confronting that and many other issues starting when I pick up my finished van later this month. You can follow my posts at www.mercurynews.com/tag/van-life or on Instagram at @itsavanlife.
There’s no data on exactly how many Americans are taking to the road.
But the nomadic trend has been on the rise since the financial collapse in 2008, said Bob Wells, an icon in the #vanlife world who moved into his first vehicle after a divorce more than a decade ago. Prior to the Great Recession, his website, cheaprvliving.com, attracted fewer than 100 people. Today, 175,000 people subscribe to his YouTube channel by the same name, a sign that for many, van life is a necessary choice to make ends meet.
“I think of van life as an attitude, not a vehicle,’’ Wells said.
The van life movement has also spawned travelogue-style YouTube channels and DIY forums where people seek advice about things like how to get mail on the road. There are podcasts, like Wheel Travel Far, hosted by two San Francisco millennials slowly making their way down the Pan American highway in a Land Cruiser-trailer combo. And two San Diego women plan to launch an app later this year that will let van dwellers share information about where to shower, park, get good wifi and meet face-to-face if they are in the same city at the same time.
I spent years anxiously searching for a viable housing solution that would allow me to retire in the Bay Area without going broke. While my rent is extraordinarily reasonable right now and I adore my landlords, I can’t count on that lasting forever.
In the course of worrying about how to spend my fast-approaching golden years on a retirement income of about $3,000 a month, plus savings, I considered moving to a lesser-known Greek isle, where you can rent an apartment for under $500 a month. But it’s already too hot for me there and global warming is expected to hit the Mediterranean hard.
I thought about buying a Sausalito houseboat off Craigslist. You can get one for about $65,000, but slip fees are $1,500 a month, about half my projected monthly retirement income. And that’s if you’re lucky enough to get a berth.
Finally, while researching tiny houses online, I stumbled on van life, not surprising since the two movements overlap. I immediately seized on the idea. It will free me from monthly housing costs and give me the opportunity to travel. Though I’ll be living in the Bay Area, I can use the van to tour in North America or leave it at a friend’s house if I save enough to go abroad.
In the resurgence of van life, Volkswagen buses remain popular, but it’s the bigger vans like my Ford Transit that are the latest rage. Once available only in Europe, some of these vans are big enough to stand up in. They are also considered less prone to break down than older VW campers and more durable than RVs.
My van cost $53,894, including tax and license fees and a seven-year optional service contract that I decided to buy after reading about the struggles of vanners dealing with constant breakdowns. That was a big stretch for someone who drives a 14-year-old used car. But even with the additional $22,000 I’ll spend turning it into a home, plus the $15,000 on labor, the total price is a fraction of a traditional house. Many vanners spend much less, and some spend a lot more.
Though I admire people who buy vans and do the “build’’ themselves, I have no carpentry, plumbing or electrical skills. I could hire a van conversion company to turn my Transit into a home, but they are pricey, and many already have months-long waiting lists.
Combing the web, I stumbled on exactly what I was looking for — an artisan van converter named Kyle Volkman. He’s lived in a converted school bus for about five years after turning it into a cozy home that easily weathers Idaho winters and runs on recycled vegetable oil. (That’s music to the ears of this 61-year-old former hippie.)
He and his brother, Josh, know all about living in a vehicle, from why it’s smart to buy marine-grade kitchen appliances, instead of those made for RVs, to which solar power system will keep you from ever having to find an outlet at a campground to plug in to the grid.
But buying the van and hiring the Volkmans were just the first steps in the dozens of decisions I faced on a near-daily basis, involving things I knew nothing about, like the pros and cons of bathroom tile versus fiberglass-reinforced plastic or laminate versus wood flooring. What was the right width for the kitchen cabinets? What kind of table pedestal did I need? Then after all that, choosing the right decor became my biggest challenge. My favorite room of all time was fluorescent orange, hardly appropriate for an 80-square-foot space that’s roughly the size of a small walk-in closet.
Nine months later, I’m set to pick up my finished van-home with a friend this month in Idaho, when I’ll get to take it for a test run back to the Bay Area.
I’ve already picked up a few tips from people in the van life community on the unfamiliar new lifestyle I plan to retire to — from the value of collapsible bowls and a foldable coffee pour-over brewer in a tight space to tips for staying safe on the road. But of course, I’m nervous.
I know parking will always be an issue, but I’ve already found some unusual solutions, including getting permission to sleep in a secluded lot in an industrial area of San Jose and renting a spot for a small fee in the Santa Cruz Mountains. Many vanners “stealth park,” a practice that refers to camping secretly, which often includes parking illegally. But I hope I don’t have to.
Van life has no shortage of other challenges, though, including having to pare my belongings way down, rent a mailbox somewhere and figure out how to get health care on the road. That pretty sunset after you park for the night? It might be followed by a herd of elk running across a dark highway and into your van, totaling it. That happened to Mike and Jess Shisler in Idaho. (They had to buy a new van, something I’ll never be able to afford.)
Even in van life, there are socio-economic divisions, just as there are among renters, condo owners and homeowners. Vanners pride themselves on being less materialistic than the traditionally housed, but don’t consider themselves homeless, Wells said. In turn, he added, some of the older people who live in expensive RVs with all the amenities of home consider themselves a cut above van dwellers, many of whom shower at gyms and use portable toilets or buckets.
But I’m impressed by the community van life provides and the gutsiness of people like Oakland residents Veronica Castillo and Miguel Venegas. Both in their late 20s, they’ll soon be giving up their $1,450 a month studio apartment to move into a well-maintained 29-year-old Ford Econoline they are outfitting with a bed, kitchen and porta-potty for about $6,000. By living there, showering at their gym and continuing to work at full time jobs, the married couple says they will be able to pay off the $100,000 they owe in student loans faster.
Castillo says the plan makes little sense to her mother, who emigrated from Colombia and worked two jobs to avoid losing her house in the recession.
“Her vision is you buy a house and more cars and accumulate things,’’ said Castillo, who learned about van life while looking online for creative ways to travel. “That’s just not us; we both value experiences rather than things.’’
Van life is not for everyone, warns 75-year-old Elsa Doran, who offers senior citizens advice on her Moonglow The Gypsy YouTube channel about how to survive on the road. Doran gets by on $770 a month in Social Security by legally parking her 2004 white Ford Freestar mini-van for free on federal or state lands.
“Sometimes, you’re lucky to have enough gas to last the month,” Doran said. But it’s worth it to her to be out in nature. “For years, I hadn’t seen a firefly. The other night they were dancing all over the place.’’
Freelance videographer Matt Alexander, 31, put it best. After visiting 27 different states in the past 10 months in his 2005 Dodge Sprinter van, he said, “I have friends all over now.’’
While I’m looking forward to making new friends on the road, I’m hoping van life will end the “should-I-stay-or-should-I-go” debate about the Bay Area I’ve been trapped in for years. Rather than spend my retirement moping around about having limited options, I might actually have enough money left over to enjoy some of the amazing things our region and beyond have to offer.
