While the novelty of van life was thrilling, I’d set an exhausting pace. It’d be a few more months before I learned to slow my roll, and even longer than that to truly relish the lifestyle.

I was conflicted; I felt I should be publicly documenting this incredible new chapter of my life. However, learning how to live van life took priority. Discreetly at that. I wasn’t traveling in van life-friendly territory.

I wanted to see to Nova Scotia. Because the name conjured images of a remote and rugged land. Aside from my imaginings, I knew nothing about it except for its mention in an old Carly Simon song.

It’d been nearly three weeks. Certainly not the longest I’d ever gone without, although I’m hesitant to admit what my record is. It’s quite shameful, really. The me of a decade ago would’ve denied it was possible.  

The first time is dense with delicious sensations, emotions, and a bit of apprehension. At least, it’s been that way for me. Afterward, there’s the undeniable poignancy that it will never again be the first time. That the thrill, the anticipation, the mystery will not ever reach the same heights. Not in the way it did when it was still unknown and fueled by fantasy.