O-K, Oklahoma: Our First Time, Please Be Gentle

Chapter 29: Leveled-ish Living

There was a time when Nelson and I would obsessively fuss over whether the van was perfectly level, adjusting blocks and moving the van back and forth like overpaid surveyors. These days, we’ll happily sleep at a slant steep enough to make standing from the toilet feel like climbing out of a canyon. Growth, apparently, is measured in degrees of tilt.

Nelson worked from “home” in the morning before vanishing to an AI conference at Crystal Bridges. I, denied parking at the museum, consoled myself with boxed sushi and a matinee of Eddington. Billed as a dark comedy, it turned out to be more of a slow-motion existential crisis starring Joaquin Phoenix. Excellent film, but the gory finale made me grateful for mall air-conditioning and $9.50 tickets.

Dinner was “meh” pho that tasted like salt water with noodles, followed by a nighttime arrival at Natural Falls State Park, Oklahoma. Going to the bathroom close to midnight, I nearly gave myself a heart attack spotting what I thought was a glowing ghost child on a swing, but it was just a big bug lamp and a very dedicated mom. America remains confusing.

Chapter 30: When the Sky Finally Took Pity

Rain on a van roof is the closest thing vanlife has to luxury. I woke up grinning like a fool, listening to the drops drum out a private concert while congratulating myself for not having to step outside. Nothing makes you love weather more than not being in it.

Breakfast was granola and bananas, then I ambitiously set a beef stew simmering away in the thermal cooker — because clearly what Oklahoma humidity needs is a bit more steam. The day slipped into cozy domesticity: journaling, watching the rain slide down the windows, and feeling smugly content that chores somehow feel charming when performed under drizzle.

By evening, Nelson finished work and we set off to see the park’s waterfall. It was genuinely lovely — lush, cool, and photogenic enough to trick us into forgetting the heat for a few minutes. Back in the van, the beef noodle soup turned out shockingly good: rich broth, tender meat, and none of the “what have I done?” energy that usually accompanies my experiments. For one perfect night, vanlife tasted like success.

Chapter 31: Meeting a Different Kind of Giant

Breakfast was scrambled eggs and maple sausages (a salt lick on a plate), then we zipped over to Tulsa to trace some Route 66 history. The map we picked up at the heritage visitor center was so hopelessly vague that I’m convinced it was designed by someone who hates tourists. Still, we stumbled onto charming old neighborhoods, leafy streets, and eventually the Arts District, where murals and shops distracted us from the fact that we had no idea where we were going.

Tulsa surprised me in the best way. People dressed as grandmas in nightgowns were warming up for a gravel bike race that goes well into the night, city blocks were shut down for water slides, and the whole place hummed with a kind of “we don’t need outsiders to tell us how to have fun” confidence. Lone Wolf fed us the best banh mi we’ve had in months, followed by churro-like chips dusted with sugar that probably violated several health guidelines but tasted like joy.

The city had already charmed me with Route 66 quirks, murals, and amazing sandwiches. But the real showstopper was the Golden Driller — a towering, mustard-colored oilman who looks like he’s permanently posing for a “World’s Strongest Dad” competition.

Up until this moment, I honestly thought all American roadside giants were just Paul Bunyan in different shirts. Like Sasquatch and Skunk Ape, I figured they were all one species of fiberglass folklore, endlessly cloned to lure travelers into buying gas and postcards. But no — Tulsa had its own. The Golden Driller was no lumberjack; he was an oilman, a giant monument to the city’s greasy beginnings.

Standing there, hand on hip, towering over us like a sunburnt cousin of the Statue of Liberty, he made me realize: giants are like accents. They look similar from afar, but each one has its own hometown swagger.

Chapter 32: A Respectable Sunday

After the chaos of Tulsa, Sunday was as close to civilized as vanlife gets. We had smoked salmon, eggs, and avocado for breakfast, cleaned the van, and scored excellent roadside Mexican food in Siloam Springs.

The day ended with our “Sunday ritual” at the Walton fitness center: swimming, showers, and the smug glow of cleanliness. Dinner was leftovers eaten while watching The Green Book in the van. Cicadas were blasting the soundtrack of summer, stomachs were full, and for once, we felt like ordinary adults. Which, of course, is the real fantasy.