Whether Santa Monica is strictly part of Los Angeles, is a complex line of enquiry; how can a city reside in another city? Officially, Santa Monica finds its place in the Los Angeles county, so I presume the next question is just where does L.A start and finish? As a naive tourist, let me suggest that these two cities have amalgamated, but Los Angles receives more of the acclaim whilst Santa Monica may attract those not necessarily seeking the whirlwind of activity that the former naturally inspires, but a more scenic and perhaps even more relaxed community.
My hostel is conveniently perched a few hundred feet from the Pacific Ocean, so to start my explorations at the applauded scene of the Pier was arguably the best way to get started. To risk sounding a tad British, the weather was a real mixed bag this morning; the northern coast was shrouded by a mist yet welcomingly sunny, whilst the south was clear yet shaded by a substantial mass of cloud. The pier, being within the transition between these two opposing zones, encountered a real blend of all kinds of weather, though I can report wherever I ventured, the breeze was an agreeably warm one.
There was something distinctively commonplace with the foundations that the pier was built from. I'm not referring to its physical structure, but rather the activity occurring on either side of the wide wooden planked, sand crusted promenade. Try as I might, I didn't stumble upon anything iconic; it housed all the usual slot machines and grabbing crane games; the kind of machines that eat money and seldom give nothing in return. (And where does all that money go, by the way? I'm willing to bet if you total the value from each machine in the United States, including all the betting chips in Las Vegas, the 'Fiscal Cliff' as it is referred to over here, would be but a mere dune.) I proceeded, passing families drawn in by silver watches and crisp dollar bills behind glass, and happened upon a long stretch of buskers. Some positively impressive, worthy of a small gratuity on a good day, and others simply beyond the gates of ambomiable.
At the end of the pier, a small restaurant and the Mariner office were the two main institutions of interest; the restaurant was closed and revealed a very abbreviated menu, and I had no questions for the Mariner office, but the terminus did offer views of the surrounding coastline, though nothing extraordinary. That's the problem if you, like me, have lived on the coast throughout a reasonably sized portion of your life; the novelty of 'parading the pier' experience has washed away, but I can understand the attraction of those residing in, say, the land engulfing states of Colorado or Kansas.
On my retreat back to dry land, I unearthed a little known truth about the pier. As monotonous as it may seem with the rest of the planet's long list of ocean promenades, this particular one can hold claim to fame for being the historic route end of the infamous Route 66; a formidable stretch of highway that this trip hasn't and I don't suppose will ever have the fortune to encounter. A hut of a shop, holding souvenirs to commemorate this route termination, can be found close to the end of the pier, and despite a wide range of mementos which try as you might, you can't while away more than half an hour with, it demonstrates the feeling of cramped confinement equally well. Those with large rucksacks are automatically prohibited, and everyone else has to tour the shop in one direction, and in single file. But aren't all souvenir shops the same in this respect?
Back on dry terrain, I sauntered down Ocean Avenue, intending to start the customary meandering course down every street in Santa Monica's downtown district, but stumbled upon a tourist information point and made a few worthwhile enquiries. Jacqui assisted me adequately, though she did feel the need to deal out a few flyers and magazines to support every point she made, so I came away with a triple whopper (to borrow a phrase from Burger King) of literary material; most of which basically told the same story but in different fonts and sizes. I left, with a heartwarming feeling, of being recognised and welcomed into a foreign community; a sentiment that only the traveller and likewise experiences.
Having fed my rucksack a dentist waiting room's volume of glossy magazines, I strolled further along Ocean Avenue, negotiated a sharp landward crossing up Wilshire Boulevard, and put into gear my sinuous course through the intestines of Santa Monica. Within mere seconds, I felt another one of those welcoming shuttles back to my own culture; materialising into view encompassed by the emanating essence of American culture, was the homespun shop of 'Ye Olde King's Head Shoppe', and this elaborate use of antiquated English brought another amiable quality. Already impressed with the exterior, I had to make an entry.
Here's the shop with a very small profit margin, because most of the produce on sale, can only be appreciated by a British tourist. There carefully aligned in individual columns were Aunt Bessie's Yorkshire Puddings, and Yorkshire Tea. Walkers Crisps and Typhoo. Delicately alight on window sills, and glass stands, were miniature London buses, red telephone boxes and magnets adorning other symbols of British society. A modest portion of the shop simply focused on displaying a congregation of lavish tea sets. The ladies beyond the counters were even British; I would hesitate to specify more accurately, but one sounded Irish. Next door was an equally soul satisfying establishment, simply named British Bakery, and the aroma encircling around the entrance-way ensured it lived up to its name. I purchased a Cornish Pastie (well, I had to) and jocularly expressed my surprisement to the gentleman behind the counter as to why I wasn't paying in British Sterling. The pastie tasted exceptionally British, which from a corner shop thousands of miles away from the shores of my home isles, is a remarkable achievement.
There are certain streets in every city, sometimes several, which draw the crowds more than others. In Anchorage, Alaska it was 4th Avenue. In San Francisco, it's Market Street. In Eugene, it's Pearl Street. Here in Santa Monica, its undoubtedly the frenzied promenade of Third Street. At one end, sits the city's only mall; a three storey complex which I devoted a few spare minutes of my morning to. It doesn't churn up so much of an ecstatic mood, but a slow and steadily accumulating boredom; for me, that is, without a thick enough wallet for most establishments on offer. I cherished the festive spirit, espied upon an arresting Christmas tree, and proceeded to amble down the rest of Third Street.
I overheard someone commenting on Third Street quite negatively, and aside from the expletives, the general essence of what he remarked was that it just wasn't as interesting as it used to be. Without an appeal of history, I can't possibly make any opinion, though I engaged that all it was, was a congregation of some of the finest retail stores in Santa Monica. Dotting each end were dinosaur themed topiary, which I still haven't discovered the reason behind them. A sprinkling of movie complexes gave the street some character, and in the centre, was a unique magic show. My total knowledge of the canine world could fit on one side of a cent, but I think it's a pug. Nevertheless, it enlightened the day.
It's invigorating for exploration to find that some streets grab the attention whilst others seldom experience the slightest hint of activity. After third street, fourth, fifth and sixth seemed an anticlimax; most space dedicated to housing, banks, offices and other charms that wouldn't naturally inspire the tourist to saunter through. I found it quite impossible to believe that in a city so large, I had exhausted Santa Monica's pivotal sights, so I strolled through for assurance. This was quite the case. I gazed in ponder at my map, and affirmed my suspicions. Across the road, 'angelato cafe' caught my vision, and I decided a rest bite was in order, to celebrate -if nothing else- such a speedy exploration of the city's most acclaimed sights. Out of about 100 flavours of ice cream- I'm not exaggerating here- I selected a scoop of Banana Caramel, overpriced yet delectable nonetheless, and searched through the guide books. There was the Santa Monica History Museum, but that wasn't open Sundays. As much as I love art galleries, an enlightening walk around oils and pastels wasn't enough to get me to walk 15 blocks north. There was, however, Pacific Park. I scooped up every last cent worth of ice cream, and waved a touring Santa float.
There was something naturally alluring about Pacific Park, according to my guidebook. It was a theme park, with exhilarating and adrenaline-inspiring rides; one of the aspects of being young that I miss the most. It was also admission free, so I decided to take a peek, and if convinced, execute a ride or two. Well, it did have the adrenaline whizzing furiously down my arteries even from standing and staring at the rides. Often, a surge of excitement would peak when a roller coaster shuttled over the track, above my head. One aspect wasn't alluring. Contrary to impression left by the guidebook, it wasn't free and having left my money back at the hostel, I had no choice but to turn back and leave it for another day.
Back here at the hostel this evening, I've caught up with the admin work, and even taken part in a few games of Poker. Now let me note here that I didn't- and still don't, perhaps never will- know the rules to Poker. It's never been a forte, and so I reluctantly joined, but if there's anything I've learnt on this trip, that is you have to take part in these activities to make new acquaintances. Even if you can't tell the difference between a mere flush and the Royal flush. And why is it called a Royal Flush anyway? I'll leave on that sentiment.
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