Boxing Day for me has always been rich with tradition. I'd wake up and immediately shoot downstairs to scrutinise a mountain of presents, freeing books of their cellophane imprisonment, setting the correct date and time on electrical gizmo's, and listening to a few bars of each song on CDs. Lunch would consist solely of turkey sandwiches, followed wisely by a glass of Port and the odd digestive. A family feud would endure throughout the afternoon as to who could use the television to make their premier viewing of new DVDs. In recent years, a couple of hours has always been devoted to a family quiz; an event that usually takes a degree of organisation parallel to a whole series of Mastermind. Surplus turkey would be garnished with a helping of vegetables for dinner, the taste buds would be banqueted with a trifle for dessert and we'd all relish a family film to conclude the day. A house-confined day? Maybe, but enclosed within our four stone walls would be a ceaseless emanation of warmth and post Christmas comfort; a spirit suggesting that whilst Christmas may have officially ended yesterday, tidings of comfort and joy keep on ringing.
So it was to my surprise that I emerged from the hostel to greet what seemed to be just another conventional day in Santa Monica. Commuters processed themselves through long and winding queues of traffic to their employments; the common-place hive of urban activity ensued and not a turkey sandwich in sight! And if more evidence is ever required to confirm that normality enveloped the city this morning, the buses were late. Only so slightly behind my schedule, even though it is either non existing or forever irresolute, I was being shuttled to the awe inspiring Beverly Hills; at least, that's the impression left by the magazine. I'm pleased to note here that it was entirely accurate with this presentment.
Beverly Hills has been constructed with the intention of pleasing the eye, wherever it may wander. The aesthetics are truly enthralling, not because 'the hills' are a burst of frenetic excitement, but because it's simply maintained to perfection. There's a refreshing natural initiative within the boundaries of the district, to care and put to action, the very best of resourcefulness. I stepped off the bus and decided the most tactical thing to do would be to capture a snap of the 'Beverly Hills' sign, if anything, to aid the chronicling of my now extremely extensive photo collection. (Over 4300 to date!) I have very little idea regarding the effort it took to construct the welcoming autograph, though I feel it was an embryonic achievement in comparison to my experience of accomplishing a photo of it. I arrived in simultaneity to a large tour bus, who spent the best part of the morning angling their tripods and attuning their many photographic functions, appearing to have equal astuteness to David Bailey . Following their departure, a populous family immediately appeared and took a photo albums worth of shots at the sign, and inspired creativity with posing in front of the 'Hills' segment in as many variations as possible: Mum and the first child, followed by Dad and the second child, proceeded by Mum and both children together, a solitary Dad, and then one with the whole family saying "Cheese" together, taken by a member of the grandparents who incidentally didn't seem to appear in any of the photographs! A second tour bus was parking, and with index finger hovering over the shutter button in anticipation, I achieved one half decent shot, and then departed the scene, reminding myself the basic method of locomotion, as it seemed an eternity since I last did any.
Immediately beyond the sign, and a small stretch of promenade, lies 'The Mansions'; people's very own private residences that experience visitor numbers marginally equal to any of the sights I have embarked upon, in this very phase of the trip. In defence, they beguile not necessarily because they are overwhelmingly large and astronomically facilitated, but rather due to their history. In the 20th century, well celebrated movie stars were ushered into these properties. And even to this very day, it still isn't unlikely to find a member of the Beckham family striding a paved walkway to their trash to the garbage bin, or to see an equally distinguished figure picking up their daily tabloid. I saw a gentleman today, doing just that, clothed extravagantly in a suit, which I thought was a slight overdressing on his part, for such a daily mundane spell of activity. The mansions adorn an individual style, but nearly all have a few mutualities: finely trimmed box trees before the frontage, a small viewing window, no formidable than a typical arrowslit, and a generously sized lawn. Aligned with the pavement are an equally spaced row of prodigious Palm trees, guarding the properties behind them like pawns on a chessboard. One duty in life that resides, not just in this unrivalled neighbourhood, but over the state of California, is maintaining a frequently scheduled nurture of ones car. In frequent patrolling alongside roadsides and peering up driveways, I've come across the most fostered collection of automobiles, as if everyone buys a new car straight out the showroom every morning.
It's difficult to conclude, from ground level, whether the Beverly Hills dwell on an area of relief, particularly because encompassing the innocent traveller, isn't an inspirational panorama of the rest of the county, but a skyline constantly mingling with the spires of prestigious buildings. One such arresting one is the City Hall. It never ceases to amaze me at this country's effort to ensure the most stereotypical spiritless complexes have such a charismatic exterior. The City Hall here in Beverly Hills has chosen to exploit thousand of dollars on achieving the most mesmerising finish, and embellishing the face, are two agreeable fountains.
And yet, Beverly Hills entices the tourists not due to its grand collection of fine residences, or it's city hall, but because of one extremely popular pastime. That of shopping, though here, the entertainment steps up quite a few levels. I made a leisurely saunter through what arguably is the hub of this mega-purchasing district, and still it's perplexing as to just how extortionate these avenues are. Here, charmingly perfumed ladies- and they are 'ladies'- wrap themselves in the most finest of silk just to pop out to the whole foods market. Gentlemen decorate themselves in three piece suits just to collect a bank statement. (I didn't stumble upon any pets here, but assure yourself that if I had, they would most likely be the most well groomed poodles.) Each establishment I passed showcased the finest of the finest; each and every one representing this planet's most tony apparel, the most newfangled electronics, the most chic jewellery, including a watch I passed with a $19,000 price tag. Each shop's name would be elegantly styled above its door, headlined in a Serif font, and awaiting each and every swanky customer, would be a middle aged gentleman bedecked in a tuxedo, with an expertise of tempting you into a voguish yet costly transaction. I felt very out of my league. Here, I expect you offer the salesman a wedge of dollars just to be able to step on the most taintless of marble flooring, which most of these premises support. I'm surprised that backpackers like me are even allowed to amble through; I began to imagine the area's own customs complex, with security personnel refusing people entry if they have but a mere speck of dust on their shoes, the faintest scratch marks on the lens of their glasses, or a chipped fingernail. Spotting limousines cruising through are a daily occurrence, but I was blessed with a sight of this extremely fine looking motor. If like me you can't tell the make by the diameter of exhaust pipe, or the RGB code of the back seating, it's a Bugatti.
Beside this high performance motor, I eyed a couple of menus, presented on varnished lecterns that stood like ornaments outside high performance eateries. The most basic of starter choice, decorated using the most pompous application of English vocabulary, would be served with a price tag of $15. It made 'a la carte' dining inferior. I watched as drinks would be ushered to their eventual consumers, by way of a gleaming silver tray. A couple were relishing the most premium of oysters, and weren't one bit hesitant to add to an already weighty bill, an order of 'Grand Vin De Latour'. It was probably a daily outing for them. Finding budget-friendly lunch here would be as easy as counting the consonants in the daily newspaper, so I made my way out towards the edge, stumbled upon an adequately priced market, and regained a sense of reality when the total came under two figures.
With the afternoon left, and finding Beverly Hills a touch overwhelming, I headed for Century City; a 'modern acropolis' as described in my book. I took the most scenic route possible, which transpired to be a long corridor through a small parkland, but it satisfied the soul, and tranquillity joined me on the stroll too.
On the way, I passed a beautiful fountain. The trouble with fountains is that they can't easily surprise the onlooker; their exhilaration is weakened by the knowledge that gravity will eventually conquer each and every water droplet and bring it to an eventual splash. This one caught my eye, not necessarily for its design, though patterned intricately it was, but for it's co-operation with light to engender this rainbow effect.
I entered into the 0.3 square miles of Century City to be confronted with a generously sprinkled serving of skyscrapers. Despite radiant early afternoon sunshine by this point, each and every room seemed to have its light on. I never do understand the necessity to supplement natural light when it so freely pours into the building like a breeze. But it's not this that bothered me the most as I composed a self guided tour around Century City; instead, I found nothing of even the remotest interest here. Yes, in abundance were towering business blocks, supporting I expect very interesting people, all with the ability to turn a blank flip chart into the most thought-provoking technological innovation. But for the tourist, or even the passing visitor in the pursuit of appeal, there was very little.
I started to head out, giving up on my search for the smallest crumb of captivation, when I suddenly caught a glimpse of what looked to be a robust and roaring trade, and on closer inspection, it turned out to be Century City's thriving shopping district. Two tiered, I took a seat in one of the dining terraces, sipped on a Sprite, and took pauses in my reading to gaze at the action below. I couldn't believe that with Christmas passed, there was still this degree of activity. Maybe America has a large 'return with the product and receipt' percentage? Perhaps, it's dawned on the people that you can grab a great bargain by shopping after Christmas? Nevertheless, here was a secret corner of what I once thought was a characterless city. I left all the more enlightened to think that by searching carefully, the great expanse of Los Angeles County really does have something to offer.
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