When I was a teenager I slept in the basement in a small room that most would consider a cubby under the stairs. I didn’t care about the size. It was small, tight, compacted and most of all, it was my own space. I did what I wanted and played what I wanted. The walls were smothered with images of skateboarding idols and magazine clippings with hair that stood 5 inches above their brows posted far from any other household member. No one could complain and ask me what the hell do you see in that guy. And I didn’t have to respond, ‘don’t you know mom? That’s corey hart!’ Van life reminds me of …