When I was little, and my siblings and I would play with Legos (the kind after simplistic Duplos and before complex Millennium Falcon models), no matter what game we were constructing or what narrative was in progress, I seem to have always ended up making the tiniest livable vehicles I possibly could. This included some highly unsafe engineering decisions, like a stove that folded out on top of a bed. But it always included four wheels, a driver’s seat, and a living space.

     Besides, every single trip from the Philippines back to the US during summer vacation was marked by about eight weeks in and out of a car with my entire nuclear family. Although I like to think that I’ve made the decision to take this trip as an independent-minded adult on the path of most resistance, as I look back and reflect on the facts, I come to the uncomfortable and totally unscientific conclusion that the things we learn as children really do shape us in ways we cannot control.

     It all started with me concocting this foolhardy plan one morning in Korea, telling only the people I trusted enough to help me watch over it, and secretly shopping for vans and trucks on craigslist in my office during planning periods.

     20 years and however many miles there are between Brookside, Manila and Sundown, Colorado Springs later, I made up my mind and made my purchase. The execution of this plan–withdrawing the cold, hard cash from the bank, explaining to the precious hobbit-like banker my insane and impending plan, signing my name on the homemade bill of sale, learning how to maneuver a tank around corners and finally taking it on the highway for the first time–has been the scariest, most adrenaline-pinching thing I’ve done, and I haven’t even left on the second installment yet. While I fantasized about this lifestyle in the months leading up to it–living off the grid and boning up on my knowledge of classical music while traveling the country and operating independently of any schedule–of course being in the middle of it all looks and feels much different. 10 days at home between trips is drowned out by too much sleep, thoughts about dipping into my savings, vehicle maintenance, jobs I don’t want to do but need for the income, calendars filling up with rigid deadlines, and more hellos and goodbyes than my little brain can handle. I can distinctly recall conversations I’ve had in the last month but have no idea with whom or where I’ve had them.

     While I kind of wish that this had turned out to just be an elaborate plan that I night- and day-dreamed about for nine months and then let fall by the wayside to pursue something more productive, lucrative, and less environmentally destructive, I feel confidently that I am going in the direction of my dreams and that Henry David would feel proud at the size of the suitcase that I’m bringing along.