We left the KOA Kampground in the San Diego area for beach destinations to the north, namely Carpinteria and the Central Coast of California, where I grew up. I was excited because it had been a long time since I'd visited around Santa Barbara, and also because this time I'd be seeing it with my family through the eyes of a tourist. The campground at Carpinteria state beach was ideal. Our site was off to one edge, where it bordered a large green grassy field connecting us to the city streets. "Carp," as some locals call it, is big enough to have your normal grocery stores and gas stations, but enough of a one-horse town to have large sections of blocks dominated by pedestrian and beach cruiser bike traffic. If we set out walking across the grassy field, a few minutes' journey got us to a little downtown with shops, restaurants, the site of their mid-week Farmers Market, and a big grocery store. Our campsite was also about fifty yards away from...the Amtrak station. One of many stops along the popular "Coast Surfliner" route, every 60-90 minutes the station welcomed trains that would wail on their whistles coming into the station, load and offload passengers, then hoot and toot one last "All Aboard" before chugging away. Alton was in heaven, of course, and ran to get a closer look at each and every iron horse that passed through within his hearing, even as Andy and I would lock eyes and cringe at the trains going through at 6:00 a.m. or 11:00p.m. But Alton was never awakened by it.
Our first hot, hot day at camp we decided to capitalize on California's earlier strawberry season and find us a u-pick farm where we could stock up. A little Internet research yielded one about 25 miles to the south that claimed to have a "dog area," where we arrived alongside a bevy of teasing, carousing, shoving teens on a field trip to the farm. We elbowed our way toward the young man attending the farm store cash register, who scratched his chin and looked doubtful when we asked about u-pick, then point blank said, "No dogs allowed" with regard to Minerva. We were ready to throw in the towel when our white knight arrived: wiry, straw hat-sporting Phil McGrath, the owner. When he saw that we were only a group of three and not another tourbus full of folks looking to go berrypicking, he okayed us to go out into the field. We corrected him that it would actually only be two of us picking, since someone needed to stay in the gravel parking lot with the dog, but he squinted at Minerva, ascertained from us that she was a "good dog," and waved our four-legged friend on to the strawberry rows as well. Saved!
We headed out to the soft dirt with our bags (or, in Alton's case, the cute little Cars bucket that my Aunt Coleen had given to him on Easter) and crouched down to start hunting for ripe ones. It was an organic, spray-free farm, so we were also able to sample along the way without needing to wash our snacks. Alton kept close on my heels, managing to eat way more than he picked by liberating berries from my bag or hands, matter-of-factly informing me, "I think I will need to eat this guy." Pharmer Phil had even given us the go-ahead to let Minerva off the leash if we liked, so we dared to let her nylon tether drop, trailing behind her as she grazed lazily between rows hoovering up the squishy, overripe berries that lay discarded on the ground. Between the three of us we managed to pick more than five pounds of berries, a hardy morning's work and decent deal despite the $3 per person "entry fee" for u-pick customers. The cash register dude even charged a picker's fee for Alton, which I considered protesting until I noted that the pint boxes of berries in their store cost $2.75, and realized that Alton had probably scarfed up twice that already, making his head charge more than a bargain.
Returning to the campground, we wrapped up a napkinful of berries to share with our odd, odd neighbors (three older men, disheveled and scruffy enough to almost look homeless, one tent and two bicycles between them, drinking king cans of Budweiser all day and never appearing to eat at all), because it never hurts to extend small goodwill gestures to your fellow campers, and Alton tossed and turned in the hot tent, unable to nap. Giving his sleep up for lost, we crowded back into the car to join my parents, sister and her family at a restaurant that was a near halfway meeting point for both groups. Alton promptly fell asleep in the car and spent the first while of our dinner with his Nonna like this:
He more than made up for it upon awakening, however, by energetically urging Nonna all around the small adjoining plaza, his Crocs abandoned under a patio table since slip-on camping shoes are not meant for trotting (but for tripping), whooping and squawking up a happy storm amidst his extended family. "Great," I said to Andy, "we have THAT KID. You go to just quickly park and grab takeout for your family, and there in the shopping center is this grubby, shoeless urchin cavorting around like Gollum after he's caught a fish, and immediately your child starts begging you to take off HIS shoes and run crazy on the pavement, too." I'm only kidding, of course--the plaza square was certainly cleaner than the campground, and if our little grumplin was happy galloping around with his grandmother, who cares about dirty feet and stubbed toes?
The following day we'd reserved for beach time, expecting another scorcher and calculating whether it would be hot enough to swim. Nope! The fickle coastal breezes kept the thick, soupy marine layer of fog resolutely in place all morning as we drove a few miles north to Santa Barbara. We dallied over a sunny lunch on State Street, hoping the gloom would burn off, but no such luck out by the water. No mind, we went ahead with our intended activity, a bike surrey rental. Alton had been eager from afar to ride a bike surrey (which he erroneously and charmingly called "ferries") since he spotted them for rent at our KOA Kampground, so we found a parking place near the wharf and procured our single-bench carriage despite the grey skies.
Alton was delighted, asked to switch seats multiple times, directed our route, rang the little bell...then started fading and it was time to head back to camp for a nap.
He woke up refreshed and ready to hit the Farmers Market for that evening's Cinco de Mayo fare.
We picked up avocado and looked over tomatoes, and when Alton answered the stand owner in the affirmative about liking tomatoes, he gave Alton a small yellow one to take for free, which Alton turned into a fine snack at the next sitdown opportunity:
Some chicken from the store and we were ready to barbecue our taco fixings over our first campfire of the trip now that the weather had cooled off. My parents had considerately brought us some scrap wood at the dinner rendezvous the night before, and this cache was supplemented by a small log gifted by the grizzled beer-drinkin' neighbors after we'd done them a good turn with our strawberries (see, it pays to share!).
We took care in packing up and washing all our kitchen stuff, since we'd been visited by bold, rough and tumble raccoons each night after bedtime. Their tracks would be everywhere, we could hear them arguing and scuffling just outside the tent in the wee hours (another thing Alton slept through), and one morning we even discerned a faint muddy print on the side of the Mini, like they were checking for open windows on the car!
Cinco de Mayo also marked another herald of fun: new neighbors! During our surrey ride a family had arrived for the weekend with a Jeep plus cargo trailer full of fun stuff like toys, cruiser bikes, booze...but the best thing they brought was a three-year-old boy who was outgoing and ready to play. For that whole evening, Alton was overjoyed by his new friend. The boy had Tonka trucks, water shooters, a bike, a wading pool...his mom was a sweet lady a few hard lemonades into the evening, so she magnanimously waved us over to their campfire and chatted our ears off while we watched the boys play. It was wonderful. The next morning, Alton's first words upon waking were to ask about his new friend (who we could hear was already up), so we scurried out of the tent and on to the restrooms, promising hs little friend that we would "be right back." Alas, when we exited the bathroom their Jeep was gone, so were they, and the weird cousin they'd brought camping with them said that they had to go run an errand in Santa Barbara and wouldn't be back for awhile. I could have cried at Alton's heartbroken little face; that had been our last night at this campground and Andy was already breaking down the tent to move on to our next destination. There would be no more playtime for Alton with the new buddy. He halfheartedly drove one of the little boy's Tonka trucks around for awhile, but he put it away and dejectedly ate his breakfast oatmeal before it was time for us to really shove off. We left on a low note, but perked up considerably at our halfway stop in Paso Robles to visit my grandparents. Great-Grandma Shirley is a used book collector, and generously augmented Alton's backseat library with some new Berenstain Bears classics that he couldn't wait for Daddy to read. And so on to Sunset State Beach Dunes....
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