Lessons from Day One of living in an RV.

Always close the cabinet doors. I suspect it will take many many more bangs to the head before this lesson actually sinks in. We discussed making a spreadsheet of who left the cabinet open vs who hit their head on it. So far, it's mostly Galia's fault, and mostly Mike's head. (Sorry, Boo.)
There is no such thing as privacy, part one. Everything that happens in the RV is seen, heard, and smelled by every person in the RV.
There is no such thing as privacy, part two. RV parks are basically parking lots with bigger spaces. If you wake up in the morning and want to open the curtains to let in the light of day, your neighbor can see you walking around in your PJs with your bed hair and retainers in. (Note to self: research removable frosted screens for windows.)
The world ends at the edges of the RV. Once inside with the shades drawn, it feels like you could be anywhere or nowhere. It feels strangely remote, like you're in a cabin in the woods with no one else around. This is really cool and interesting and makes it feel quiet and peaceful, but can also feel a little isolated and lonely. (Another note to self: text friends often.)
Living small is expensive. Money can buy you space. Space gets you the ability to buy in bulk. Buying in bulk is cheaper. I always knew I was privileged to be able to buy in bulk, and I am really feeling it now. Limited space means you need to buy singles of everything, and the smallest version of that single. A four pack of toilet paper is a lot more per roll than a 24 pack. A travel shampoo is a lot more per ounce than a salon-size shampoo. It adds up dramatically over time.
Living small is also bad for the environment. A dozen small containers in the trash (now) versus reusing and refilling a single one (before), because keeping the refill jug on hand takes space. Not being able to compost. Using way more disposable plates, cups, utensils. Even if we're using less water, electricity, and goods, a lot of the other ways we normally minimize our impact are a lot more difficult.
Living small is more work. Each dish has to be washed, dried, put away immediately, because there's no space to keep it. The floor should be swept daily. I still haven't figured out how to wash my face without getting water all over the bathroom.
But it's good for practicing minimalism. Lesson learned from moving out: all your stuff is junk and nobody wants it. Keep only what you actually need. If you have the urge to keep something just in case you might need it: get rid of it; if you really need it, you'll know and you can get another one. (Thanks, Andrea!)
Only one person can do a thing at a time. Both need to brush your teeth before bed? Too bad. Only one of you can reach the sink, so you're on your own. Carrying something and need to get by? Too bad. I'm already standing here trying to find something, you'll have to wait. But hey, while you're there -- give me a hug. (So, this one can be a bonus.)
Everything takes twice as long as you think it will. "We'll be leaving the house at 11 and need to go pick up the RV, so we should be there by 1." Did I say 1? Make that 3. Because somehow, whenever the RV is involved, it takes longer to get there, longer to pack up, longer to drive, longer to park, and time slows down times two. I call this the Theory of R[V]elativity.

None of these things are good or bad, or better or worse than before. It's all just part of a new way of life, and one we're excited about.

Here's to a year of learning. I'm sure there will be many, many more lessons to come!

The last few days were pretty rough. Most of them went something like this:

Wake up early, after not enough sleep. Galia runs errands or squeezes in a business meeting while Mike packs up stuff. Cobble together something resembling a meal from the fridge using whatever ingredients don't require a microwave, toaster oven, or other portable appliance because we've given all of them away. Galia lists some more stuff for free on craigslist, Mike tapes together boxes and carries full bins to the walk-in closet to make it feel like we're making progress. We hang out with a close friend, force them to take some of our possessions which they amazingly keep doing with a smile (again, great friends!), try not to cry while saying goodbye and promising each other we'll text all the time even for no reason. Stay up packing until way past our bedtime. Sleep on the floor. Repeat.

We had given away all our lamps, so the last few days, Mike plugged a light bulb directly into a power strip and we moved it from room to room as we worked. Wednesday morning, the movers came to pick up everything we were taking to storage. All that was left over was the stuff we're taking with us, and the junk. The place finally felt empty. And it finally felt like something was happening.

We were struck and confused by how strange it DIDN'T feel. It felt like we had a project, sure. And sure, we knew in our brains that we were giving up this apartment we love. But I think it's a life change so big that you just can't process it in advance. It didn't feel real. Still doesn't feel real. Might be a while until it does.

On Thursday, we had our apartment inspection, picked up the RV, and packed up the rest of our stuff. Before we left the apartment for the last time, we sat on the floor and hugged and looked at the view we'd probably see many times more but never from that exact spot... never again from that apartment... and I was surprised at my tears.

There are few moments in life that you can look at and know with such certainty that this moment, right here, is a moment that divides my life. It is the moment where the last chapter ends, and the new one begins, and everything will be different now. And to purposely give up a known good for the unknown -- even an unknown good -- is scary. I know the next chapter will also be amazing, but it's such an unknown that I can hardly even think about it. In any case, I was overwhelmed by how many emotions you can carry at the same time: grief, sadness, nostalgia, but also excitement, joy, curiosity. The discomfort of jumping into the unknown with the comfort of doing it with your best friend. The discomfort of not having a home with the comfort of knowing that your home is wherever you are. And the gratitude about having a partner who's up for this mad adventure, and pride that we're living our lives in a way that when we look back, we'll feel like we've really truly lived it.

That night, we went to an RV park about an hour south of San Francisco. Once we got there, my grief was out of my system, but then it was Mike's turn to be sad, and it finally hit him. It's not ours anymore! We don't live in San Francisco! We don't live where so many of our chosen-family lives, and we'll really, really miss them. We'll miss birthdays, and weddings, and babies being born. And sitting on the couch playing Drawful and eating Indian pizza. Goodbye, and hello to the next chapter.

The next morning, I set up my workstation for the first time while he was out running the final errands. I got a portable external monitor, so with the help of a portable laptop table, I was able to basically have my full two-monitor setup with extra keyboard and mouse and wifi and it was no different from working at the office or anywhere else. Except now I'm sitting on a comfy couch and the coffee refills are even closer.

We drove to Santa Barbara that night, with an obligatory stop at the Madonna Inn to check out the waterfall bathroom. We got amazing Mexican food (shout out to my brother, Eyal, for the recommendation) at Super-Rica, drove around SB a little bit, and passed out early.

And now it's Day Two.

It still doesn't feel real. We travel so much that so far it just feels like we're on a normal trip, booking it to Oceanside to visit my parents, and we'll still just go back in a few days and get back to work and life and routine. So I wonder if it'll just feel like that all the time, but for a year.

In any case, we're excited, and exhilarated, and happy, and bewildered. And can't wait to see how the next chapter unfolds.

Next stop: Oceanside, CA, to stay with my parents for a month. Onward!