After eleven hours of relatively undisturbed sleep, I’m feeling much more human. Having seen most of central LA’s offerings, I decide to make my way to Venice Beach, described by Lonely Planet as the home of LA’s counter culture. The hostel has a collection of directional pamphlets to all the main sights, so I grab the one for Venice and head to the bus stop in the morning gloom. The other man waiting takes my arrival as an invitation to tell me what he thinks of every piece of musical theatre he saw last week in London. He didn’t like Priscilla – the songs were not integrated well enough, didn’t like Billy Elliot – the minors had too much say, and didn’t like Wicked – doesn’t like the composer, but thought the Jersey Boys was wonderful. When the bus comes to rescue me I discover you can no longer buy day passes onoard, so I have to disembark and go and buy a pass then wait for the next bus.
On this bus, I notice two other girls have the hostel pamphlet and are asking the driver for directions, so I jump off when they do. On the next bus, I make the mistake of sitting next to a young, black guy sitting alone on one of the side seats. The music is booming so loudly through his earphones that I can listen in. Then the rap starts. He sings along. Loudly. Every word. Then he starts with the hand actions. The young guy across the aisle starts encouraging him. As soon as there’s another free seat, I move. Just in time. The pair started talking while the rest of the bus eavesdrops. Another guy joins in, along with a homeless guy in a wheelchair with an impressive plastic bag collection stashed around him. The best quote I hear is, “I use marijuana for medical purposes”. The same guy then announces to the bus that he’s a dealer. That shuts everyone up. Apparently both the main guys have their raps online. I won’t be looking them up in a hurry.
At Venice Beach, I join the British girls from the hostel. We walk to the boardwalk, which is awful. It’s seedy and rundown and looks like a weirdo hangout. The beach on our left is nice enough – wide, with a bike track, so we walk along the track chatting, all the way to Santa Monica Pier. At the pier, there is a faded looking amusement park – why do both the Americans and British think you need to provide additional entertainment at the beach?
Walking back along the beach, we sit for a
while watching the waves. I dip my toe in, but despite the day warming up, the water is still freezing. I take a photo of the Baywatch-style beach huts for the lifeguards, and yes, just like the TV show, they do wear red swimmers. They don’t, however, look like Pamela Anderson and David Hasslehoff. Some of the store models do though – I noticed yesterday that most of the mannequins in the store windows seem to have very large breasts. How very LA – even the mannequins have enhancements.
We stop at a beachside café for lunch, by which time the boardwalk at Venice Beach has woken up and the vibe has completely changed. It now has a market feel – still alternative, with a lot of palm readers, tattoo parlours and handwriting analysts, but a lot more people around, a host of stalls, and a far less seedy feel. I still had to fend off a few weirdo advances, but they’re not too persistent. I suspect they’re too stoned to care.
We walk past Muscle Beach – the outdoor gym on the edge of the beach, where muscle-bound posers work out, before heading back to the bus stop and into town. I leave early tomorrow for Virginia, with a brief stop in Georgia on the way, so another early night is on the cards.
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