I love campervan life. But it’s not easy. I’ve just returned from the first leg of my From Animal House to Our House paperback tour. In another week, I’ll start the second leg, into the Mid-west.

The fun part is the mobility, having your home right there behind the driver’s seat. In some ways, it’s like living in a tiny efficiency apartment: storage of stuff is a daily challenge. You’ve got to unfold your bed every night; then fold it up every morning. The place gets dirty fast. You can’t leave dirty dishes for tomorrow. And, if you want to recycle, you’ve got to be disciplined and be willing to haul around those empty, plastic bottles. I’m surprised how hard it is to find recycling drops on the road, by the way. Very few grocery stores have them. One day I walked into a Trader Joe’s with my recyling, found a guy in the back and said, “Do you guys recycle? Can you take this?” I explained that I was on the road and had nowhere to put it. He took the stuff.

Garbage, generally, is a challenge because I can’t collect much before I have to dump it. And then there’s the front seat. Oh, my. I use the front seat as a storage area and this has gotten me in trouble a number of times because the front gets so crowded, I can’t tell what is garbage and what is not. Which is why, not so long ago, I threw away my new prescription sunglasses, which had fallen into my little garbage can. Now I keep my (old) sunglasses in the driver’s door bin. Live and learn. I’ve also thrown away half a dozen apples by mistake. And a whole almond croisant. I regretted the latter more than the former.

I’m meeting a lot of people on the road. Many find my camper van to be unusual and they want to have a look. At the same time, it’s not like I can keep a low profile when I’m parked somewhere. One day I had to be at a TV station by 6:00 A.M. Right after the show, I returned to the parking lot and took a three-hour nap. By the time I woke up, the lot was full, and I was getting stares. Finally, as I was making breakfast, somebody came out and asked, “Can I help you?” I explained that I had been on their morning show and that, not to worry, I wasn’t camping out there.

Although I have a toilet — which is a huge deal on the road and has saved me more times than I can count — I have no shower. My van just isn’t big enough. So, this time, I’ve bought a membership in a health club that has branches all over the country. Still, that doesn’t guarantee I can find one of these gyms when I need one. Surprisingly few state campgrounds have showers. Recently, in desperation, I bathed in a mountain stream. I did not bathe naked, I should add, because I was just off a frequented trail. In fact, four people on horseback rode by as I was finishing and looked at me curiously. I held a bowl in one hand and a bar of soap in the other.

At first Cleo, my intrepid basset hound, did not like being in the van, not even at night. But now, at bedtime, she hops in. When it’s time to travel, however, I have to pick her up and deposit her on her bed, right behind the driver’s seat. If I could, I’d put her on the passenger seat (I know she’d like it), but I have no way to keep her safe up there. She would need a seat belt.

Being on the road makes you vulnerable in some surprising ways. One night I parked in front of a friend’s house. In the morning, when I went out to move the van, I noticed a trail of ants traipsing across the dash. Hmmm, curious. Then, I looked again and saw that the ant trail was quite long. Closer inspection — opening the doors — revealed that these tiny ants were trooping in two vast lines, marching up the front tires, through the engine compartment, then into the van on each side. Though their processions were orderly, the ants numbered in the thousands. Apparently they had mistaken my little camper for a fallen elephant and seemed intent on dismantling it bone by bone. Am I stating the obvious when I mention that there are plenty of things for little ants to eat in a camper van? My ants had found some loose dog chow, for starters.

What do you do when an ant swarm attacks your camper van? Move! So I did. Either the colony was on the march, house hunting, or I had happened to have parked right over the nest. Had I not been so panicked, I might have gotten some good photos. As it was, I was killing ants as fast as I could. Douse paper towels with rubbing alcohol, then wipe. That does the job. But the job took me two hours. Even though I was out of the ant stream, they just kept coming up from the engine. And they were all the way to the back of the van, where the dog chow was. I ended up washing the van, shooting at ants with the hose. Then I had to be on the road for my next event, ants or no ants. Later, my friend said that her neighborhood was known for its invasive ants. Thankfully, these weren’t fire ants.

For the next two days, I was smashing ants as they leaked out of my dashboard. Keep in mind that they can’t relocated the nest unless they relocate the queen. So I had no worries that I was driving the entire colony around. But imagine what might have happened had I left the van parked there for a few days. Makes me shudder! They’re gone now, I’m happy to say. But you can bet that, the next time I park, I’m going to scope the surroundings very carefully.

Cleo and I love Savannah, GA, which we just visited as part of our “From Animal House to Our House” book tour. Although it’s often paired with Charleston — they are of similar age and size — it’s quite different. The first difference is Savannah’s elegant, grassy squares, shaded by moss-draped live oaks. The second thing you’ll notice is the city’s seedy edges and artistic funk. Savannah is a city of artists, thanks to the predominance of SCAD — the Savannah College of Art and Design. The college produces architects, graphic designers, painters, sculptors, art historians, city planners, product designers, and all kinds cultural visionaries who are making their mark on Savannah in subtle ways, from the look of shop windows to the curriculum in local schools. The College has also restored 60 historic buldings in town: old factories, town houses, a theater, old department stores, etc., all of it done to the highest standards and all of it repurposed in inventive ways. SCAD started out in 1979 with 71 students in one building and now has campuses on four continents, with over 11,000 students.

Thanks to Joni Saxon-Guisti, “the Booklady,” who owns the charming Book Lady Bookstore, I had the great pleasure of entertaining a group of architects, designers, and old house owners at the home of John and Ginger Duncan, in their jaw-dropping, ante-bellum townhouse just off of Monterey Square. This alone made my trip to Savannah worthwhile because I got to meet a number of people who have helped restore the city to its current historic splendor. Everybody in attendance knew exactly what I was talking about when I described how Jill and I tookn on condemned property with no money, no help, and no knowledge about fixing up old houses.

The next day, Pam and Stark Sutton showed me their lovingly restored 1850s town house, then designer/builder David Bloomquist and architect Algar Thagne showed me a stunning restoration they did for a client whose house incorporates contemporary elements with the old (and will soon appear in Architectural Digest, which is why I can’t show you any photos right now). I then met with Ramsey Khalidi at his Southern Pine Company, which salvages old wood for re-use — including antique logs that have been dredged up from river bottoms. The place is crowded with old wood, most of it yellow pine, also known as “southern pine” or “heartwood pine.” That’s what Jill and I have in our house. The wood is renowned for its resilience and workability (i.e., easy to work with). The great thing about old wood is that it’s from trees that were allowed to grow for, say, a hundred years — which means that the lumber they produce is really strong.

The Southern Pine Company resides in a circa-1900, former laundry facility that used to employ African Americans, many of whose descendants are still living in this modest neighborhood. The building was condemned property and destined for landfill when Ramsey bought it. Ramsey has done a lot of that, saving buildings that nobody thought worth saving. He fearlessly moves buildings too, in part because the first house he bought for himself (in the 1970s) was delivered to him on the back of a truck and Ramsey had to figure out how to plant and anchor the house. Among his many projects, Ramsey has gotten into building sets for movies that are shot in Savannah, most recently recreating (in Savannah) the circa-1970s New York warehouse district for Showtime’s CBGB movie, which recounts the rise of that famous punk-rock club. The cool thing Ramsey does is rent the set to the movie company, then breaks it all down for use again in another set or building.

Savannah is a small town of 140,000 that hosts nearly 12 million tourists a year. Its challenge is to keep from getting overrun by these visitors. The most imminent threat is from cruise ships that want to dock here. The problem with cruise ships is that they disgorge thousands of visitors who trample the landscape but spend very little money (because the cruise ship has got its hands on that money, even to the extent of setting up its own souvenir shop at every port). As it is, the tourists are not nearly as intrusive in Savannah as they seem to be in Charleston, probably because Savannah has more land over which to spread its tourists.

Before leaving, I stopped by the Davenport House museum to talk with Jamie Credle, the museum’s animated and irrepressible director. This is the house that started the preservation movement in Savannah when, in the 1950s, an adjacent funeral parlor announced that it would raze the building to make a parking lot. The house was built circa 1820 and is an excellent example of the Federal style, which means it has painted woodwork, elaborate wall paper, and pleasing proportions. Jamie happens to be from North Carolina and grew up in tobacco country near a house museum (Hope Plantation) that, for her, was an inspiration. She never imagined she’d run such a museum herself one day. But dreams do come true.

On my way out of town, I grabbed a large pizza at Vinnie Van Go-Go’s, which is a wildly popular joint that takes only cash and will make the pizza exactly as you want it — which they did for me. And I ate it all because I have no self-control when I’m on the road. But I shared the crust with Cleo.

Cleo and I have just spent three days in Charleston, S.C., an amazing city if you like old architecture. It’s as old here as anywhere in the U.S.A. What’s amazing about the architecture is that in the 1700s, well-to-do Charlestonians were living in as high a style as their counterparts in London. In other words, their buildings were neither crude nor modest. As one historian explained to me: “Charleston was New York before there was a New York to speak of.” Early on, there was surprising diversity in Charleston, due to its port traffic, its proxmitiy to the Carribean, and its religious tolerance. It became known as the “City of Steeples” and remains distinctive for its numerous grand (mostly protestant) churches.

Cleo and I came this way as part of my From Animal House to Our House book tour. But we’ve lingered in a number of places to do work for the Preservation America project, which involves my interviewing preservationists everywhere I can find them. We’ve spent nearly a week in both the “upcountry” and the “low [coastal] country.” Among those I interviewed were Diane Culbertson, who (with her neighbors) moved and saved a number of early South Carolina buildings (most from the 1700s), including an African American school house that was found overgrown in a forest. Joe Magill, another preservationist, directs the Slave Dwelling Project. To bring attention to the untold story of slaves, he spends the night in slave cabins, sometimes in the company of the slave owner’s descendants. In short, I’m meeting some cool people who are doing cool things

You can’t talk about Charleston without talking about real estate and tourism. They go hand-in-hand because Charleston has become one of America’s premier tourist destinations. According to Conde Nast, it is, in fact, the number one tourist destination. People come here to see the old real estate. But to accommodate their great numbers, developers have constructed much new real estate. And so the question has come to the city: How much tourism do you want? There are trolley tours, horse-drawn carriage tours, pedi-cab tours, walking tours — the city is awash in tourists. As a result, the most developed areas of downtown feel like a shopping mall — virtually all of the store are occupied by national franchises, like Crate and Barrel and the Gap, which are the only kind of business that can pay the rent. Some residents fear that, by the time developers are done, Charleston will seem like little more than a theme park.

A recent loss for Charleston preservationists was the 1958 Public Library building on upper King Street. The Preservation Society of Charleston fought for eight years to preserve it. They lost finally in a close S.C. Supreme Court decision. By many standards, the buliding isn’t pretty, but it is historically significant as the first desegregated public building in Charleston and it is a definitive example of mid-Century modern civic architecture. As one preservationist puts it: “If all we’re doing is saving the buildings we happen to think are pretty at the moment — and history be damned — then we’re not doing much.” The old library, which could have been repurposed for any number of uses, will be replaced by a new hotel. Charleston already has 18,000 hotel rooms. The new hotel, according to one preservationist, will be too tall for the city (remember, we need to see the steeples) and, most likely, won’t be built to last.

Charleston is the birthplace of American preservation, its Preservation Society having established itself in 1920 in order to save an 1802 building from being demolished to make way for a gas station. It’s remarkable to think that, in so many places, preservationists are still fighting to save significant old buildings from being demolished for parking lots, convenience stores, and strip malls. What it comes down to is this: if you don’t mind living in a place that looks just like any other place, i.e., a generic kind of shopping mall/strip mall sprawl that could be Anywhere, USA, then you are not a preservationist. But, if you like to be in, near, or around places that have distinctive character, if you care about the quality of your surroundings — a bungalow community built in the 1920s, a ranch house community built in 1950, or a colonial neighborhood built in 1750 — then you are a preservationist. It doesn’t mean you’re against progress; it doesn’t mean you want to turn houses into museums; simply it means you want to keep using the old, or older, places.

Charleston has become a second home to the ultra-rich. You know this by looking at the housing prices. They’re nearly as high as Manhattan’s. A mansion that might cost you a couple million anywhere else costs upwards of 15 million here. If Jill and I lived here, I’d want to be in the historic district but would be able to afford nothing larger than a garage. You can’t beat the city’s cultural assets — there’s great food, music, art, and so on. But, as an outsider who’s seen a lot of great places, I must conclude that Charleston has been overbought and overbuilt.

I’ve got a problem: I can’t stop eating barbecued pork as I book tour the South with Cleo in my custom camper van — to promote the paperback of From Animal House to Our House. Whenever anybody wants to take me out to dinner, I ask, “Do you know a good barbecue joint?” And they always do — because those joints are everywhere in the South. And, if I drive by one myself, I’ve got to stop. Just tonight I had my menu set: I was going to make a big salad. Heart healthy. I was feeling righteous. I was on the mend from my BBQ binging. But then, just as I was about to reach my destination for the night (a Walmart parking lot) I passed Harry’s, a quirky roadside diner that promised jaw-droppin’ pork BBQ. It had vintage neon signs and was so down-home and local, I’d've been kicking myself for days if I hadn’t stopped for a look-see.

Was it worth it? Damn straight, it was worth it! The pulled-pork sandwich was appropriately dry and smoky and came with slaw on the sandwich. Part of the fun of going to these little restaurants is that it’s a very particular sub-culture that I can fit into like a local. First, you’ve got to know the lingo. When you walk up to the counter for your drink, all you say is, “Unsweetened.” Or, “Sweetened.” Meaning iced tea. That’s all anybody drinks in the South: iced tea. Not fancy tea. Regular tea, like Lipton’s. Drinking iced tea is a holdover from plantation days. My sister-in-law, from Birmingham, AL, drinks unsweetened iced tea all day long. I’ve taken to drinking it too while I’m on the road.

The other thing you need to know is how to order your pork BBQ sandwich: chopped or sliced. With or without slaw. If it’s with, then you might be asked “red or white”? The red slaw is more vinegar-tomato based, which is what I prefer. Then you’ve got your sides: hush puppies are a must. They’re sweetened, deep-fried corn bread. Lordy mercy, nothing’s better. Lots of catsup on that. Then maybe get you some fried okra. And for dessert, a whopping piece of cocounut cake. Or, if you want to be traditional, banna pudding.

I’ve been on the road for 10 days and have eaten at 7 barbecue restaurants already. Just last night, outside Columbia, SC, a good friend’s sister took me to a buffet-style BBQ restaurant: Shealy’s in Leesville, SC. I’d never been to one of those. You buy a ticket at the door, then go to the buffet counter, where you can get all you want for as long as they’re open: creamed corn (made with fresh corn), green beans boiled in fatback, grits, lima beans, rice, pork rind, catfish stew, fried catfish, fried popcorn shrimp, French fries, fried okra, fried chicken, and barbecue pork (mustard based or vinegar based). Lord oh mighty. The catfish stew was superb! It had big chunks of bacon in it.

Here’s my terrible confession: I’m a vegetarian. That is, I’m a vegetarian at home. But, when I’m on the road, all bets are off — because life is short (especially when I eat the way I’m eating). And I can’t ever tell if I’m coming back this way again. And so, when I see a quaint BBQ joint in a small town, I stop. I’m now rationing myself to one sandwich at every stop. But that just means I’ve got room left for a side of fried okra and a slice of cake.

As of tomorrow, I’m on the wagon (it’s a sagging wagon from my BBQ poundage). But I may need your prayers to see me through the temptation. Problem is, people are telling me about their favorite places — and I”m taking notes and thinking, well, maybe if I pass this way going home, I could just stop in a take a look . . . . Oh my.

Most people call a camper van a “home on wheels,” and this is true but not wholly accurate: a camper van is more like a boat on wheels. Driving off in a camper van is like launching a boat — because, unlike a house, you are untethered in a camper van and as adrift as you can be on dry land.

Cleo and I are once again adrift on the American highways as I tour the nation to promote the paperback edition of From Animal House to Our House. The difference between this year’s trip and last year’s is that I’ve added a lot of refinements to my little custom camper van. For starters, I’ve strapped more things down. This is what you do in a boat because rough seas, like rough roads, kick around any- and everything that is not secured: pots, pans, plates, canned goods, cereal boxes, water bottles, apples, oranges, bananas, paper cups, shoes, and so on.

Camper van living is like boat life because, once you cast off, you must be wholly self-contained; and so we are: the only thing we don’t have onboard is a shower. I take those at gyms or friends’ houses. Otherwise, everything is onboard, including internet connection (via smart phone). I am writing this now at my tiny van table by the light of a DC-powered lamp. Cleo is curled asleep at my feet. When I’m done with my work, I’ll fold up the table, then fold down the bed (Cleo sleeps underneath — and, thankfully, she doesn’t snore). Since my windows are curtained and shuttered, I could sleep through the sunniest morning. But Cleo will wake me for her morning constitutional by 9:00. If I’m feeling lazy, I’ll just open the door and let her hop out, tethered to the van on an eight-foot leash.

When I get outside of big cities, I get a lot of stares. In fact, today when I pulled into the parking lot of a barbecue restaurant in a very rural part of southern Virginia, one of the cooks stepped out to watch my approach. Once inside, I encountered several, curious stares: the cashier, the counterman, and two cooks were looking at me like I was the Stranger who had just galloped into Dodge City. The cook said, “What kind of work you do?” To keep it simple, I told him I’m a house inspector. And he nodded like that made sense. Then, to be friendly, I added that I was headed south, to Winston-Salem, my hometown. Really, the cook’s question was: What kind of work do you do that you drive a van like that?

Nobody was trying to be rude. It’s just that in a small town, you don’t see many strangers and you don’t see many strange vehicles. What makes my camper van strange is its European design. It’s distinctivly unAmerican. What makes it stranger still is its mint green paint job and its solar panels on the roof. Although I certainly wanted the van to look customized, it was never my intetion to make it look like a sideshow. It didn’t occur to me that in most parts of America, the Mercedes Sprinter van is still an anomaly.

Tonight, Cleo and I had a splendid event at the New Winston Museum in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, my hometown. Cleo, who had a free run of the museum, made many new friends. Historic Forsyth hosted the event and I got a great turnout and sold lots of books and saw many friends I’ve known since high school: Sue, Brad, Steve, Susan, Chuck, and others. Afterwards, we ate barbecue at Little Richard’s — this is authentic pit-cooked pork barbecue, God-awesome food. Then we went to hear the GBs perform, the local oldies rock band whose members are friends we all know from high school. Lots of deep roots here. By the time we were done, I was on the dance floor, doing the twist.

For more on the camper van, link here.

For my complete tour itinerary, link here.