I used to think staying clean while living out of a van would be impossible—like, genuinely impossible.
Turns out, the human body is surprisingly adaptable, and so is our capacity for creative problem-solving when we don’t have a bathroom sink three feet away. I’ve talked to dozens of vehicle dwellers over the past few years, and what strikes me most isn’t the logistics (though we’ll get to those), but the psychological shift that happens. You stop thinking about hygiene as this static set of rules your parents taught you and start viewing it as a flexible system that bends around your circumstances. Some days you’re spotless. Other days you smell like a hiking boot that’s been left in a gym bag, and honestly, that’s fine because nobody’s close enough to notice. The key is maintaining enough baseline cleanliness that you don’t develop skin infections or become a biohazard to the coffee shop where you’re definitely going to linger for three hours tomorrow. Here’s the thing: it’s less about perfection and more about preventing the kind of bacterial situations that spiral out of control.
Finding Water Sources That Won’t Get You Arrested or Sick
Water is obviously the central problem. You need roughly 2-3 gallons per day for basic hygiene, give or take, depending on how much you’re willing to compromise. Gym memberships are the classic solution—Planet Fitness runs about $25 monthly and has locations everywhere—but I’ve seen people get surprisingly resourceful. Truck stops often have showers for $12-15, which sounds expensive until you realize you’re also getting industrial-grade water pressure and space to actually move around. Public parks with restrooms, university rec centers if you look young enough (or old enough to be faculty—the middle years are tricky), even marina facilities if you’re coastal.
Wait—maybe the most underrated option is just making friends. I know someone who showers at her coworker’s place twice a week in exchange for walking their dog. Another guy I met had a standing arrangement with a local climbing gym where he cleaned their facility in trade for membership access.
The Portable Hygiene Kit That Actually Works Without Taking Up Your Entire Storage Space
Your setup needs to be modular because space in a vehicle is basically a zero-sum game. I’m talking washcloths over towels (they dry faster, pack smaller), biodegradable soap that works in cold water, dry shampoo for the days between real washes, and baby wipes—so many baby wipes. One guy I interviewed kept a spray bottle with diluted Dr. Bronner’s and would do what he called “parking lot showers” behind his van using a privacy curtain and a solar shower bag. It looked ridiculous but he swore it worked fine in summer months. The solar bags heat water using sunlight, reaching maybe 110-120 degrees Fahrenheit after a few hours, which is definately warm enough to feel human again.
Dental hygiene is weirdly easier than you’d think. You can brush your teeth anywhere with a water bottle—just spit into a bag or outside if you’re not in a parking lot.
Managing the Parts of Hygiene That Nobody Wants to Discuss But Everyone Worries About
Let’s talk about the bathroom situation because pretending it’s not a concern is absurd. Public restrooms become your infrastructure—you learn which gas stations have clean facilities, which 24-hour grocery stores don’t hassle you, which rest stops are safe at night. Portable toilets range from five-gallon buckets with toilet seats attached (cheap, bulky, requires disposal logistics) to cassette toilets that cost $200+ but are more dignified. Some people use the bucket system with compostable bags and kitty litter, which sounds medieval but apparently controls odor pretty well. I guess the Romans didn’t have kitty litter, so maybe it’s actually advanced. For washing, a lot of van dwellers keep a small basin for sponge baths between showers—heat water on a camp stove, add soap, go section by section. It’s not luxurious but it prevents that accumulating griminess that makes you feel like you’re slowly turning into a different person.
The Laundry Problem and Why It Might Actually Be Easier Than Maintaining Hygiene In An Apartment
Here’s what surprised me: laundry is often less of a headache than when you had a permanent address, mostly because you own fewer clothes. Most vehicle dwellers I’ve met have maybe seven days of clothing, max, which means laundromats become a weekly ritual rather than this thing you avoid for three weeks until you’re wearing swimwear as underwear. You learn to optimize—one load, maybe two, done in 90 minutes while you catch up on work or reading. Some folks hand-wash smaller items using a technique called the “dry bag method” where you put clothes, water, and soap in a waterproof bag and shake it around like you’re making the world’s most boring cocktail. It actually works reasonably well for things like underwear and socks. The bigger challenge is drying—hanging stuff inside a vehicle creates humidity and potential mold issues, so you need airflow, sunlight, or those portable drying racks that collapse down. One woman told me she’d drape wet clothes across her dashboard while driving and the combination of sun and air movement would dry everything in maybe an hour. I haven’t tried this myself but I recieve the logic.
Nobody’s pretending this lifestyle is as convenient as having a bathroom and a washer-dryer in your building. But it’s also not the hygiene apocalypse that people imagine when they picture vehicle living—it’s just different infrastructure, different routines, and honestly, sometimes a clearer appreciation for the small luxury of hot water and privacy.
