Carpinteria, California

Long, boring driving from SLO down the coast. In spots the terrain looks just like wine country; in others, it resembles Midwest farmland. After more than a week of driving right on the water, freeway and grassland wasn’t all that exciting. After two hours or so (during which we polished off “The Girl Who Played with Fire”), we pulled in to Santa Barbara. 20 mins or so of driving in circles in downtown SB, both having to pee something terrible, we picked up a bunch of supplies at Ralph’s.

From there back on US-101, just in time for rush hour traffic. It took us about an hour to drive 10 or so miles to our campsite in Carpinteria. Bumper-to-bumper, cold, overcast skies, and both a bit frustrated after driving in circles.

Irritation turned to amusement upon arriving at the “camp site.” Imagine a series of long parking lots, with almost every space occupied by with campers, trailers, and mobile homes. Tent camping only possible on one side of the parking lot, as that was the only stretch of non-paved space in the entire beach park. This set-up looked (and sort of felt like) the kinds of tent cities managed by the UN in war-torn places. Lots of haggard people, living very close, sharing bathrooms, and oxygen. This may be how diseases get spread.

The scene included kids running everywhere; people of all ages on bikes; surfboards and wetsuits drying after a day in the water; and lots of post-Fourth recovery. Our spot – slot #163 – was basically a dirt patch barely big enough for a 2-person tent, a filthy picnic table, and a fire pit full of glass bottles and other garbage.

The coup de grace: Every two hours, all night, a very noisy, long-ass train steamed by. Not conducive to great conversation or sound sleeping. The 8-ft high chain link fence and about 20 feet of distance between us and the train was insufficient, trust me. Definitely not the kind of pampered stuff we’ve grown accustomed to.

All of that said (and apologies for some melodrama), we had a pretty good night. Though it took forever for me to get it going, our fire lasted forever and kept us sufficiently warm. The food – prepackaged Indian curry and some rice – was our best yet, and the s'mores were “as perfect as I imagined them.”

A bit of Hawaii/Southern route planning and then off to bed.

Up and at ‘em pretty early, mostly in an effort to get to LA in time for the WC quarterfinal game between Holland and Uruguay. If we knew that it rained the night before, and that most of our patch was muddy, we might have stayed in the tent a bit longer. Packing done for speed, not for elegance, and certainly not in keeping with our usual, meticulous program.

To our disbelief, the carton of six eggs that we boiled the night before were no longer stashed under the car top carrier. Breakfast cancelled. We still can’t really figure out what happened.

Theory #1: An animal (raccoon?) smelled them, and climbed up the front of our car and carried the eggs away. Supporting evidence: the muddy tracks on the hood of the car and the front bumper, and the groundhog (?) peering out of its burrow, about 3 feet from our tent.

Theory #2: Some very hungry person swiped them. Supporting evidence: The sign posted near the bathroom that read, “Lock your stuff. Items have been stolen here, including wetsuits, bikes, surfboard, some during daylight hours. Normal precautions may not be sufficient.” What’s more, that a raccoon could find them, carry them off, without leaving a trace of the carton, egg shells, etc. is very hard to believe.

Theory #3: I got up in the middle of the night, sleepwalking, and either gobbled them down all at once or threw them at the squawking birds** perched just above our tent.

To top it all off, at 6:05 am, a member of the park’s enforcement arm left a ticket on our windshield. Apparently, this person was under the impression that we either hadn’t registered/paid for the spot, or that we were parked in the wrong stall. Either way, that person was misinformed. We had paid, parked in the proper location, and had the windshield display tag to prove it. Now that I think about it, suspect number one in the case of the missing eggs has just become Beach Park Enforcement Idiot.

On our way out of the park, we stopped to check about the would-be $35 ticket. The attendant, perhaps the genius who wrote the ticket, told us to ignore it. “That’s what we call ‘a nasty gram.’ You can ignore it,” he said. Thanks, chief. To be real honest, we didn’t need you to tell us that.

The coffee and donuts we picked up on our way out of town were enough to raise our spirits, and probably tasted way better than the eggs would have.

** These damn birds were in fact far more annoying than the trains.