My walk wasn't solitary by any means, this morning; Santa Monica beach-goers were cherishing this almost perfect day with their families, whether it was cycling the labyrinthine pavement that winded it's way around those constructing sandcastles and savouring icecreams or whether it consisted of a repose in a deckchair followed by a game of Volleyball. The sheer size of Santa Monica's beach means that six or seven Volleyball courts can be erected, and yet still not disturb upon the beauty of the landscape.
I paused my relatively good progress towards Venice, to enjoy an al fresco breakfast. Here, at a small beach side diner, pancakes made a pleasant return to the Californian Breakfasting menu, and I enjoyed two with a hot chocolate which, although totally inappropriate for the weather, was delectable all the same. With a multitude of smooth melody and rhythms coming from a local radio station, and the natural tranquillity of the area, I could just as well have been on a Greek island.
From my promenade on the beach, it's perhaps a little ambiguous where Venice actually emerges on the coastline. It lacks an arresting feature or a prevailing sign, and the only innuendo is a slightly more active beach-scape. A subtle increase in people walking their dogs, or a congregation of parked bicycles offers some indication. I approached an arena that had attracted a dozen skateboarders, whose remarkably simplistic yet aesthetically captivating acrobatics had brought in crowds at every angle. I continued further along the beach, and then negotiated carefully across an uneven sandy terrain before hitting concrete again, and headed along the promenade market.
This particular street had attracted a multifarious group of traders. Moreover, on the left were a line of terraced huts, built into the lower decks of flats and apartments, that supported what looked to be more economically secure businesses. Souvenir shops with a revolving stand of all types of sunglasses, and a showcase of their most demanded of t-shirts, I found to occupy at least every fourth block. Punctuating these memento outlets were the odd beach side cafe, teasing the passer-by with a potent waft of sizzling saveloys, and some taunted the taste buds with a tantalising array of free samples. To my right, however, were more impermanent arrangements in the way of small wooden tables offering hand made necklaces and pebble threaded bracelets. Usually these were occupied by one person only, and often I'd happen upon a couple without the funds for the table, and in substitute, a patterned rug of India origin would showcase the less extravagant of products: a bag of sage or an opportunity to have "your name carved in stone!!!" which, despite the effort, didn't excite the senses to be honest. Further along, in positions that bellow extreme discontent and ultimate despair, individuals lay in plea of a few cents. One gentleman sat on a bench presenting a piece of cardboard reading: "Smile- you've got things better than I have". Unfortunately, this had little impact on my walk, as I've encountered so much of this on this journey. A little further on, a gentleman wearing a green suit embellishing the stitched lettering: 'Mr Cannabis' seemed to have a thriving stall selling packets to those who felt it necessary to contribute to an already choking atmosphere of marijuana smoke. I have the highest of disrespect to people who plague the air with such a redolence.
I admire Venice's efforts to recapitulate it's Italian essences. I wandered deeper into the neighbourhood and stumbled upon a multitude of canals, and whilst not an entirely convincing replication, the effort was praiseworthy. Now, I've been to Venice, and have -as every tourist does- strolled along the canals, sighed at the bridges, and the whole experience inspires a certain feeling; a feeling that only Italy could animate. And so, for Los Angeles, a re-enactment is a risky agenda. But as I passed over the bridges, still festooning Christmas decorations, and stared down upon gondola-shaped vessels, my Italian blood was positively enlivened and the walk was oddly very agreeable.
A sooty oppressing cloud was passing over Venice, but I continued south towards the pier, where in the distance I could make out small figures waving rods in the air, and casting them into the monstrous waves below. Dusting the shoreline were shells in a wide spectrum of hues, and further along a modest gathering of sea birds. Apart from the ceaseless rhythm of the long shore drift, only solitude accompanied me.
From the pier, a tempestuous promenade if ever I walked down one, was well populated with fishermen and a couple of bird fanatics. I turned to gaze at the vista of Venice's beach; from this distance, it seemed just a singular thread of golden coloured cotton. It bordered a transitory capilliform of foam, powered by the overwhelming expanse of the Pacific Ocean.
I eased myself from this gaze into a relaxed saunter off the pier back northwards, towards Santa Monica. Now Venice seemed comparatively less busy, though the skateboarders were still tumbling through the air and basketball players were oozing buckets of bodily fluid over a frantic skirting across a court. The beach itself was almost deserted, and I seldom passed many on my way back to the Santa Monica pier. By the time I had trekked back, leaving only my footprints as legacy of my visit, the Sun had become eclipsed by another heavy cloud, as if this ball of cotton wool had been dunked into an inkwell. I admired what was left of another glorious day, and retreated towards the hostel once more.
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