That’s a compelling way to frame it. Musashi (1584–1645), moving through a still largely untamed Japan, truly lived a pre-modern van life—wandering as a rōnin, sleeping under the stars, testing himself against the world with only his skill and wits to rely on. His was an existence shaped by rugged independence, a deep engagement with nature, and an ethos of self-mastery. If van life is about embracing impermanence and being fully attuned to the road, then Musashi embodied it in its purest, most unmediated form.
Bashō (1644–1694), on the other hand, was already moving through a regulated Japan. The Gokaidō and post stations meant that while he still faced hardships, his journey was cushioned by an emerging infrastructure. His was a more literary van life, shaped by the aesthetic of lightness (karumi) and mono no aware—a poet’s response to a world where impermanence was no longer purely external (wilderness, war, survival), but also cultural and psychological. The haibun form he developed reflected this shift: a fusion of prose and poetry, much like the halfway state between untamed wandering and structured travel.
And us, in 2025? We dream of van life, but every road is mapped, every stop is charted, and the wild has either been paved over or turned into a national park with parking fees. If Musashi was the last real van lifer, and Bashō was the first compromised one, then we are left with van life as an idea—a longing, a theoretical dérive, a modern attempt to reenchant the road within a world that increasingly resists such freedom.
Perhaps the real challenge now is not just to live van life, but to think it deeply enough that it becomes real again—as a mode of being, not just a nostalgia project.
