All I Wanted Was a Toilet on Wheels: A Descent into Vanlife Madness
It started, as most midlife crises do, with a memory.
I've been obsessed with RVs and motorhomes since I was a little kid. Some kids went to theme parks; I went to the local RV retailer the Portage Leisure Centre to walk through trailers on a gravel lot. That was a fun Sunday in our house—just me, a sea of motorhomes, and dreams of indoor plumbing on wheels. I didn't say I was cultured. I said I was classy.
And now, as an adult with money (ish), taste (arguable), and a deep-rooted desire to poop in privacy while parked oceanside, I thought—why not finally do it? Buy the camper van. Live the dream. Journal at dawn in a robe. Sprinter chassis. Front lounge. Wet bath.
I was so young. So innocent. So… not ready.
Welcome to Plywood and Delusion
Apparently, the moment you type "Class B camper van with bathroom" into Google, you enter a world where logic goes to die.
I've seen "bathrooms" that are:
A bucket tucked under a plywood bench.
A "shower" that's really just a garden hose that spews spiritual defeat.
A composting toilet wedged beside the stovetop, which truly challenges one's sense of mealtime.
It seems everyone's flipping vans now. They insulate with Styrofoam, glue down some floor tiles, toss in a hotplate, and call it "Scandinavian modern." Then list it for $105,000, no questions asked.
I'm not kidding—one of them had the toilet facing the side door. For the full al fresco experience, I guess.
Mercedes Sprinter: The Devil Wears Diesel
Here's the thing: I want the Sprinter chassis. It's classy, smooth, and frankly, it's always been the dream. But the second that three-pointed star shows up, it's like someone added two extra zeros to the price for vibes.
I found a 2008 Airstream Interstate with 180,000 miles and rust that looks contagious. The listing says "needs some TLC" and then casually asks $89,900. I assume TLC stands for "This Limo's Cursed."
I'm not looking for luxury, but I am looking for basic human dignity.
All I Want Is a Toilet with a Door
Let's be clear. I want:
A diesel engine that doesn't hyperventilate on inclines.
A front lounge so I don't have to sit cross-legged on my bed like a Victorian invalid.
A proper wet bath. With walls. A door. Maybe even a fan.
And a price that doesn't require I sell plasma or take up interpretive busking.
Is that too much to ask?
Because right now, for $150,000, you get a "kitchenette" that looks like a high school shop project, a "bed" made of three uneven cushions, and a composting toilet that you have to empty yourself … with you own hands!! Which I believe is the final boss in the game of "Vanlife: Expectations vs. Reality."
The Bubble Is Bursting, and So Are My Dreams
Turns out, this van life craze is a bubble teetering on the edge of a pin. RV shipments have plummeted nearly 50% year over year. Even rental startups are folding faster than I do during a yoga class.
Remember Chris Farley's iconic "van down by the river" sketch? Well, these days, living in a van down by the river is a remarkably expensive proposition. If you dream big like this, that bubble's gonna burst too—right along with your bank account.
Current Status: Hopelessly Hopeful
I'm trolling RepoDepo like it owes me money. I've got Craigslist saved searches in three time zones. I've bookmarked U.S. vans from 2008 and 2009 that are just barely legal to import into Canada.
I know more about Roadtrek models than I do about my own medical history.
And yet, the dream persists. Somewhere out there, I know there's a Sprinter van—diesel, certified, and just janky enough to fit my budget—waiting for me. And when I find it, I will name it. And I will christen the wet bath like the queen it was always meant to be.
Because I didn't grow up cultured. I grew up classy.
