After sweating in synagogue last Thursday, we packed up the VW and drove to the coast to spend a little time communing with God outside. Our plans were to make taschlit at the windiest point of California coast with the hopes that last year’s guilt wouldn’t find their way back from the roiling waters of the Pacific. What happened was that we got pelted with cold sea spray and old challah until we sought shelter on the calmer waters of Tomales Bay. It was certainly less dramatic to see our crumbs floating away on glassy waters, but at least we avoided the bloodthirsty residents of the coastal side, who prefer human heads to sweet bread.
While we prefer to think of ourselves as outdoor adventurers, after a few nights at a crowded public campsite we’re willing to dissolve this fantasy for a nice B&B next year. The reasons:
1. Coleman has yet to manufacture a wireless toaster for bagels.
2. We tripped over an RV satellite dish on our way to the bathroom.
3. The unspoken rule that the people in the next campsite will either be horny teenagers who think that tents are soundproof or a gas-huffing gaggle of Schlitz-swilling skinheads.
4. The schmutz created by s’mores outweighs the delight.
5. We wasted prime star-gazing time trying to light Shabbat candles in the wind.
Not that we didn’t enjoy the trip. It’s just that sometimes when we try to create our own spiritual experience, God likes to play jokes on us. Maybe we should just leave it to the experts.