In my wildest dreams I never thought Emmylou would get to go to Dog Beach in San Diego.

When we lived in Ocean Beach, we’d walk the sand, trying to pet passing dogs as they slid under our hands. We would then sit patiently until the tired old breeds would climb into our laps, fat and covered in sand, ready for a scratch. This was how we’d get our dog fix. It’s the happiest place in the world—a wide expanse of sand and beach at the mouth of the San Diego river, with a plethora of dog breeds zig-zagging and wrestling in the sand. I used to walk down to the marsh under the Sunset Cliffs bridge and then swim in the river, floating on my back with the current, drifting back to the ocean. Once a german shepherd saw me doing this and dove in to my rescue. It was sweet to see his snout drifting towards me; his little triangle eyes full of concern. He left me with scratches on my belly that lasted for days.

This was Emmylou’s first visit to the ocean. She was wild with abandon; when we took the leash off she was a bullet, taking off like a bunny rabbit, legs straight out behind her. Without a beat, she dove into the waves after a ball, unfazed by the ocean’s current and strong, salty taste. She was pure joy.

Earlier that day we arrived at the Mission Bay RV resort, which is basically a huge peninsula made of asphalt. Western sycamores shade just about every site, and bougainvillea vines appear in flashes of hot pink along the fence. We had Passport America cards that allowed us to get half off our stay for four days, which amounted to about $25 bucks. We couldn’t believe our luck.

We happened to park directly across from another 5^th wheel scamp from Alaska. 5^th wheel scamps are so rare; people often mention that they’ve never seen one before. Randolf, the owner, worked seasonally in Alaska and camped down south for the rest of the year. Mikey chatted with him while I scrubbed out our mold-ridden fridge, everything melting into the bars and emitting a sharp, almost sweet odor. It was horrible. We ran out of power in LA and for a few nights we only had candles, so the fridge suffered. We learned our lesson.

The next day we biked for hours through the bay, past Seaworld and Mission Beach and through Pacific Beach to our old stomping grounds. It was a clear, perfect 70 degree San Diego day. Filled with bliss, we decided to splurge on some Sushi, knowing a place that offers half off certain rolls for lunch. We ate slowly, rolling our eyes back, making sounds that one only makes when one hasn’t had that kind of fresh goodness in a long, long time.

We went out with friends that night, ending up at the OB Noodle House two blocks from where we used to live, in an outdoor patio surrounded by potted plants and vines. It was great. We picked up right where we left off.

Later that night we sat around Brian’s record player, drinking drinks made with his homemade bitters, trying to stay quiet long enough to hear an entire song in silence. Ah, back to the good old days.

The next morning we drove to La Jolla. It’s always difficult for me to fully take in this area, with its cliffside mansions and green glittering water, with its coves carved into the rock and its salty, sea lion smell. We met a friend down on the beach—a straggler who left the protected cove and sat proudly on a public beach, daring anyone to come close. He made a deep, guttural sound and wouldn’t make eye contact with anyone, instead staring directly to the left of our gaze. We decided to leave him be.

At night we walked Bubba around the point of the bay, in a quiet residential area next to a row of thick palm trees. There was about a foot of beach, and then calm, black ocean. Across the way we could see a lone bonfire. Its light illuminated the water, lipping its way all the way back to our shore. I found it calming to hear the roar of the interstate, wondering where everyone was rushing off to, while I walked in silence, Emmylou padding alongside me in the dark.

We left San Diego not because we wanted to, but because the street rules have changed (since we lived there) for anyone pulling a trailer. One cannot spend the night on the street, in a parking lot or even right outside a friends’ house. The city wanted us to show two months’ worth of our friends’ water and electric bills and jump through all kinds of hoops in order to get a permit to stay on the street. Once this was achieved we were then only allowed to stay for three days. We couldn’t afford the hefty $50/night to stay where we were, as our discount had expired.

Disappointed but not disheartened, we decided to head inland, to a place called Diamond Jack’s RV park in the heart of horse country, about thirty miles from the beach.

In the next few days we would make it to Yuma, Arizona, where we were pleasantly surprised at its beauty and culture, and especially excited to see my aunt and uncle, Darla & Mike.