It's a beautiful early summer day; the sun shines bright, and the cool wind sweetly wipes away the sweat droplets forming on your forehead. You walk towards the bodega. As soon as you step on the block, you hear in the distance the faint sound of lively bachata music; slowly, it gets stronger, permeating the streets with melancholic melodies of past loves and betrayal until you get to the bodega. Both the guy, Pedro, and the bodega cat or Mr. Manager, as you call him, greet you at the same time.
“They’ll kill you. It’s not safe!”
The story so far is that we’ve been locked down in Cornwall for almost 9 weeks now. We’ve been in the same car park with 5 other full-time vanlifers. The police are cool with us being here. The locals aren’t but we’re all a bit over that now to be honest. They’ve taken our reg numbers (license plates) and they check the car park twice a day for newcomers and move them on.
April was a significant month for me:
I’ve always loved bridges. Especially those that go over water. They connect entirely different worlds that are only a few steps apart. 836 meters is the distance between my world and the one I see out my window. It is just a ten-minute walk, but in ten minutes you can cross the border between the two worlds: The foreign land of luxury skyscrapers and designer dressed business executives, and my world, one full of young students full of hopes and dreams working toward liberal arts degrees that will never make them enough money to live on the other side of the bridge (or on this side if we’re being perfectly honest).