days 101-107—sandy ego

Arriving in San Diego felt like rolling up to the gates of Disney World, a cascade of giggles masking the Puh-puh-puh-puh…vrrrrrrrrr… from the engines lining up behind us.

April 5-11

And for all intents and purposes, Campland on the Bay was San Diego’s Disney World, with a promise of endless adventure, sugar rushes, characters, and foregoing bedtimes. Nestled on Mission Bay, just a few miles from Sea World and the ocean where their biggest stars belong, this RV Park was a haven for pre-teens navigating sugar highs, scraped knees, and early crushes.

Or two 30-year olds on a year-long sabbatical.

We pulled in with the van humming and the bay glittering in front of us, sun bouncing off the water like it was trying to lure us. It was chaos, but the joyful kind—golf carts and kids on scooters crisscrossing the campground, speakers playing Top 40 and Fleetwood Mac in the same breath, the air filled with the sounds of laughter, seagulls, and the occasional dad yelling “Slow down!” to no one in particular.

The sites weren’t fancy—just patches of concrete and sand—but people made them feel like home. Tents strung with fairy lights. Folding chairs arranged in circles like campfire confessionals. Inflatable paddleboards drying on the side of RVs. You could hear the sound of bare feet slapping against the ground, always.

Campland wasn’t peaceful in the traditional sense, but it was honest. It was kids belly-laughing over nothing. It was damp swimsuits and sandy toes and forgetting what time it was. It felt like a postcard from our childhoods.

While we were near the water, dogs weren’t allowed on the beach at Campland, so we drove a few miles to Ocean Beach. There, we lost track of time as we watched Charlie, overcome with joy, as she ran in and out of the waves in a relentless pursuit of her ball.

We then wandered through the nearby neighborhood, full of shops and restaurants we imagined had been there for decades, serving up fresh margaritas, vintage postcards, and trinkets that smelled faintly of salt for surfers and tourists alike.

As the sun gave into its nightly retreat, we made our way back to camp for a post-dinner treat. In addition to all the activities on the property (volleyball, pickleball, a gym, and a pool, just to name a few), there was also an ice cream parlor within walking distance from our site.

Dangerous, but scrumptious. When was the last time you had an ice cream cone?

It had been a while for me. While I love ice cream, as I’ve gotten older I’ve traded the cone for a cup and spoon out of practicality. But while holding that chocolate scoop in a waffle cone, I was transported back to being 10 years old, full of wonder, carefree and unaware of anxiety.

We woke the next morning to drive up the coast, stopping for coffee near Torrey Pines, and taking in the wildflowers that dotted the shorelines. Fog blanketed the cliffs, coveting the sea as a treasure only awarded to those who were patient.

And the reward was ours.

As the fog folded back, the ephemeral turquoises and emeralds of the Pacific made their debut amidst the white caps. And while I’ve seen this very sight a thousand times, every instance feels like the first. And again, I was reminded how small I am and of all the other forces at play.

After stopping for lunch in Encinitas, we drove back to San Diego, where clear blue skies embraced us. The temperature was an alluring 70, with a slight breeze, which gave us both the same idea.

“Let’s go for a run?” Trent asked, as I was already scooping my sneakers out of my storage-tote-turned-suitcase.

Another perk of Campland was the paved running path that ran alongside Mission Bay for miles. We suited up in breathable fabrics and our water packs, and set off, Charlie’s pitter-patter trailing beside us.

7 miles later, we had gotten a good lay of the land. Campland was even bigger than we suspected, with sites stretching far beyond the embankments of the bay. We passed several parks, too, full of families enjoying the last bit of the weekend’s splendor.

Monday was just around the corner, with a parade through Old Town as we took in the Spanish charm and I stopped to marvel at every plant that lined the streets.

It was our last full day together before Trent flew back to Colorado for a few days to compete in the Enduro, a gripping and endurance-testing ski race at A-Basin. He competed in it with Pauli for the last 5 years and us being on the road wasn’t going to stop him. While it was for charity, they took it pretty seriously, boasting 58 laps in a single day as their record.

Although Campland was lovely, I took Trent’s departure as an excuse to treat myself, and booked into a hotel just down the street for a few days. While he was away, I got a facial, caught up on books, took Charlie for strolls along the water, and reveled in all that Balboa Park had to offer.

It was there that I met Elaine, an 80-year old painter, whose work hung in one of the galleries in the Spanish Village Art Center. We spent an hour going through the origins of all her pieces and how she got into painting in her forties after her son enrolled in art school—a testament to never being too old to try new things.

Something about her felt familiar, and I noticed that I kept asking her more questions to lengthen my time in her presence. She didn’t seem to mind.

As she explained her technique, a piece in the corner caught my eye: a man and a woman on horseback trotting through a southwest landscape. So as not to offend her, I snuck a glance at the price. Far more reasonable than I expected, and before long, she was wrapping it up for me.

A grin spread across her face.

“You know, this is the first piece I’ve sold in weeks. When you come through Montana, please tell me you’ll stop by?”

Montana was where she spent most of her time, and as she extended this invitation, it dawned on me that it wasn’t so much that I felt I’d met her before, but that I ached for my own grandmother.

It’s been five years since we got lost in conversation. When she passed, I was living in San Francisco, only a vague understanding of something called Covid, and early on in my tenure at Meta—then called Facebook.

I then wondered, what would she think of my life now?

She’d be so proud—she never understood what I did for work anyway. She thought I was a journalist.

Maybe, in a way, I am.