We had a lazy morning with amazing breakfast burritos cooked for us by our gracious host. I can not gush enough about how awesome it was to stay with Jessica, everything was just right, and her place is lovely. Suitcases packed, we were soon bundled into her still-dusty-from-the-desert car and driven to the BART station to journey to the airport.
We managed to avoid the morning rush on the train so that was all good. San Francisco Airport is really efficient too, and we were through security into the gate area in absolutely no time at all. They didn’t have much in the way of services or snacks to take on the plane, but on the other hand it was going to be a short flight.
I never thought I’d be that keen on Los Angeles. It’s big, it’s sprawling, it’s unecological, it’s get rich or die trying, it’s fake lips and tits and noses, it’s inequality. But when our plane started its descent over the sprawl of ruler-sharp streets and city blocks, rounding the downtown needled with a set of skyscrapers I’d seen in a thousand movies, I realized I was stoked to be there. We wouldn’t have long in LA, but I was glad I was going to get a taste of it.
It’s an expensive city, though. We took a taxi from the airport the two dozen miles into our hotel. It was at this point that the tipping culture prevalent in the US started to irk me a little. One is expected to not only tip the cabbie, but in this case the guy who opened the trunk and took our stuff out, as well as the guy who opened the door of the hotel for us – which he did by waving his hand at the automatic door sensor. Seriously.
We settled into the Omni Hotel and noticed that they would not only offer us free internet access (seriously, who would dare to charge these days?) but also two free items laundered and pressed if one of us joined their mailing list. My suit was definitely showing signs of having been packed into a suitcase and hung up every night so a quick phone-up to ask if they could press it resulted in a lot of money and worry saved.
I thought it’d be nice to take a bus down to Santa Monica, as neither of us fancied staying in downtown LA for an evening, and save some money in the process. Not to mention seeing some local flavor. Too bad our taxi driver who drove us to the bus station (yes, I am aware of the irony) had no clue where he was going and because of a detour to the Greyhound station before we found the correct place it ended up costing us $20. Luckily the bus was only a few bucks each so we kind of made it back on that.
The bus had air conditioning, which was great. Driving down a seemingly endless Venice Boulevard we saw turnoff signs for places I knew from music, movies and the general backdrop of culture America, and specifically southern California, seems to have embedded in all of us. Inglewood, Compton, all those places. Taqueria after taqueria. I imagined driving in my own car, with the windows down, stuck in traffic but not in a hurry.
It was approaching evening when we arrived at the seaside. Santa Monica beach was gorgeous, every bit of the Baywatch image it deserves. From the pristine sand to the kickass waves and lifeguard huts, everything was like I imagined it. Topping it off was the sun setting in front of us. People around us were cuddling in the sunset, having ice cream and jogging. I imagined the teenagers who had come to the beach to hang out after one of the first days of school having to head back home once night fell. At least some of the joggers must have lived locally, in some of the nice houses and apartment buildings in teh town.
Santa Monica’s pedestrianised Third Street is its star attraction aside from the sea. I could see that, but not come to terms with the artificiality. We’d spotted a bar further down on Main Street from the bus window, one that looked pleasant and like the kind we’d rather spend an evening in over the cookie cutter ripoff touristy places of the center. We were studying one of the maps dotted around when an older gentleman approached and asked us where we be lookin’ to go. As we were confused, he explained that he was a Santa Monica visitor guide and fully accredited, so not a panhandler.
Main Street, we said, we’re looking for a place to eat and have a drink. Somewhere nice.
“Yeah, I guess there’s places to eat down Main Street…” he said hesitantly, clearly more comfortable giving people directions in the immediate promenade area. We would just have to go down several blocks, through a shopping mall and then across a few more streets.
Turns out he was right to be a bit hesitant, as the way after the shopping “experience” ended was a bit dark and this being essentially Los Angeles we were a bit hesitant to walk past the several loonies yowling in front of us. So we hailed a cab for a few-block ride until we eventually found the Library Alehouse which was an immediate hit. Clearly busy even on a weeknight, they had a half-hour queue to seat us. They happened to be doing a Dogfish Head night and had most of their beers on, some as special variants. I wasn’t brave enough to try the 120 minute IPA which had between 15-20% ABV. Their peach beer was a nice fruity-and-sour mix and I had a few others from local-ish (the term being flexible for me in a country this size) such as the Firestone Walker Double Barrel which was delicious and went fantastically with my plate of ribs. I am glad the server mentioned the half rack was “pretty big” as we both ended up taking food in boxes back to the hotel!
It was pretty awesome to end the night with a night-time drive on the Santa Monica expressway back toward LA. We arrived at the hotel at just around midnight, clutching our take-along boxes and “absolutely bloody final” beers. No, I didn’t tip the door staff.