When we were planning our move and building our little house in 2014, I honestly didn’t know how I’d acclimate to a rural area, but after nine months of living in a small town, I love it. It’s just what I’ve needed, and it feels like home.
Our tiny house is nearly finished, so I wanted to share a preliminary tour. It’s been a year-and-a-half since I first wrote about moving out of San Francisco, wanting to make changes in my life, and moving toward living in a smaller, simpler space.
Our tiny house, at 131 square feet, will simply be the innermost core of our world.
Trying a location on for size in our tiny house on wheels.
When I travel, I confront my past selves: the curious and idealistic, the wistful and unhappy versions of me.
Combined, our imaginations shape and create these places, now more than ever.
It feels odd, perhaps unnatural, to age in a place as timeless and anachronistic as Las Vegas: where night is masked as day, where clocks are nowhere to be found, where things happen and are never spoken of again once you’ve left.
In her essay about life on tour with a rock band, Claire L. Evans says that travel teaches her more about time than it does about place. I agree. My favorite kind of “travel writing” — or I suppose writing about place — embarks on an inner journey, and uses a physical location as a diving board into one’s depths, into their mind. On a recent plane ride, I read a lovely piece called “Seeds” by Thao Thai about her grandfather and his garden, growing up, and Vietnam. The post isn’t about “travel,” and yet the journey the writer takes me on is…
I remember then feeling I had to rise against it, that Hanoi was something to be conquered. Maybe I wasn’t in the right place; maybe it wasn’t the right time. You never really know with cities. They’re like people, and you don’t always hit it off.
Such different life paths
From each other, and from mine
Yet New York City is like glue
Where these intersections materialize