We soon pitched our tent and completely exhausted fell asleep before darkness fell. The last words I heard before falling asleep were, “Why do we think tents protect us? It’s really only two layers of nylon. A bear could probably take the tent with one swipe. Maybe two. Except there’s nothing in here to eat. Except us….”

Day 3 – backtracking along the jeep trail. Attempting to take another trail to the coast. Running into a ridiculous number of cows. Trying to remember if cows are attack animals. Apparently not. Just curious. A herd heard us coming, turned their heads, walked closer and closer, eventually stopped about 15 feet from us, and stared us down until we were out of sight.

Finally we made it back to the coast. We finally had an opportunity to consult our tide table. Perfect timing – it was just high tide. We noticed the water line and pitched our tent accordingly. During the night it seemed the roar of the waves was surprisingly loud. My last thoughts before falling asleep were, “Glad we pitched our tent at high tide. We’re safe.”

Safe? Technically yes. But it was a close call. In the morning we noticed the high tide line was inches from our tent. Guess the night high tide is higher than the day high tide. Good to know.

Day 4 – we woke early, packed up, and hiked several hours back to the parking lot, our legs heavy, our shoulders sore, and our backs stiff.

We were greeted in the parking lot by a group of school children and their teachers. One woman asked us if we had hiked the entire coastal trail. “No, we did a loop up on the ridge then came back along the coast.” She stared at us. “The ridge? Wow. I’ve never known anyone to do the ridge…”

The homeless man weaved in front of me at the Sunday morning Civic Center Farmer’s Market. Back and forth, back and forth. He stopped suddenly, reeled back, and shouted towards the heavens, “Eggs, eggs! Buy the eggs, people. Don’t forget about your protein!”

From The Killer Angels, by Michael Shaara:

“A little eccentricity is a help to a general. It helps with the newspapers. The women love it too. Southern women like their men religious and a little mad. That’s why they fall in love with preachers.”

He left our table to use the restroom at the chic French restaurant. A waiter appeared, picked up his white linen napkin, whipped it in the air, and gingerly folded it into quarters. I smiled as he placed the napkin beside the empty plate. A moment later another waiter came by, lifted the quartered napkin, snapped it in the air, folded it neatly in eighths, then placed it in the center of the empty plate, and left. Moments later the maitre d’ smirked at the napkin, raised it, waved it as a bullfighter waves his cape, then magically transformed it into a rose, delicately placing it in the center of the plate.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw him returning from the restroom. As surreptitiously as possible, I motioned for him to return to the bathroom. He looked around, confused, and continued toward our table. I waved him back. Go. Go back. Now. Turn around. But he wouldn’t.

As he sat down, he asked what I was doing. “I wanted you to stay in the bathroom a while longer. I think the swan would have appeared next…”

Being in the front row was awesome.

The 80’s were alive and well at The Independent.

She came back, bringing the last of the “shots” (read: crazy 8 ounce mixed drinks that 80 year old ladies would enjoy). Seeing that we had not seen each other for quite a while, one in our group asked the server to take a photo of the group. She immediately lit up. “Great idea!” Then a perplexed look. “Oh, but I forgot my camera.”