I devoted the first day of 2013 to a reconnoitre of the reputable Sunset Boulevard. Over the last week, I've stumbled upon various bite size chunks of the twenty two miles of tarmac, but in these unintentional visits, it's burdensome to create some umbrella conclusion about it. Now, unfortunately, I've never viewed the musical nor the film Sunset Boulevard but I have listened to the song countless times, so I went into my roadside explorations feeling almost acquainted, though the lyrics do little to celebrate the stretch of road. I walked up to it this morning, re-listening to the stridulous words. "Frenzied boulevard" and "Brutal boulevard" followed later by the equally discordant descriptions of a "Ruthless boulevard" and a "Lethal boulevard". It's a "one room hell" with a "rancid smell". The kind of "secret, and rich and a little scary" place where you see "wallpaper peeling at the corners". A neighbourhood, "swarmed with every kind of false emotion" that is "waiting to swallow the unwary". No wonder these lyrics seldom, if ever, appear in the tourist guides.
"Getting here is just the beginning" is yet another line from the tune, and for me, very much a reality this morning. Our journey aboard the metro was running smoothly, without delay, and if there was such an adjournment, it was negligible. And so, it was just a brushing with unluck that brought us to an immediate standstill, on the edge of a rather busy boulevard. It transpired, after I engaged in a short interview with the bus driver, that a passing motor had relentlessly crashed into the wing mirror, leaving it unfit for highway traffic. We lingered for at least half an hour for a replacement, during which time some less patient decided to disembark the long stalling session and saunter into what I expect for them, was the unknown. Others took a breath of fresh air; I simply sat, slightly fatigued after only few hours of sleep last night. Eventually, a replacement vehicle alighted; we slipped dutifully on, and continued what was becoming a bothersome journey.
So, having listened to the song, I already had a sketchy painting of Sunset Boulevard, but I was curious all the same. How could, I thought, such a prominent location in one of the largest most prolific cities sustain such a deplorable scene? Very easily, I would come to discover.
Despite the lyrics, I had strong hopes for Sunset Boulevard, and the various literature I have become engulfed into these last few days have nearly always mentioned it positively, in one way or another. It's not that I found it disagreeable, or dilapidated, and it isn't so much an element of the suggested ruthlessness; it's just that there's so little to become captivated by. Sights that grasp your vessels and send a torrent of adrenaline through them, were few and far between which leads to enquiry as to why it lands so much acclaim in the tourist guides.
I ambled down a promenade, which still looked languid from the vivaciousness of late night partying. In the air, flying solo, was yet another helium balloon; a vacant car park adorned yet another plastic hat, embellishing the greeting 'Happy New Year' in unspoilt glitter. Across the boulevard, a party-goer, far from the world of comfort, was wilting like a malignant weed, against a lampost. Even the fire-engines, which sent out an electrifying forewarning of their immanent arrival, appeared to be darting through the streets with less urgency, as if the engines were recovering some type of hangover from overuse on New Year's Eve. Seemingly most animated were the various monuments themselves, which may I admit alas, aren't abounding.
Furthering my progress, I happened upon the least likeliest destination for exquisite dining. The building showcased every single tan of rust possible, in the absence of tiles were just strips of corrugated metal, and a large pronounced chimney interrupted the skyline. 'The House of Blues' as it is known by contrast serves a delightful menu; 'The Original Caesar', for example, is composed of Baby romaine, parmesan tuile and crostini. (Needless to say, I only recognise Parmesan!)
In a startling contrast, I gazed across the boulevard again later on and caught this beautiful property festooned by extremely well manicured nature. As my walk proceeded, I found a gradually heightening in the buildings surrounding me, and soon emerged into the galaxy of financial operations, business dealings, and the almost endless list of other irksome agendas. Greeting me at the other end was the familiar scene of Beverly Hills, and I realised I had exhausted the most interesting strip of Sunset Boulevard. Whilst a little dispirited in this respect, at least I had happened upon a familiar neighbourhood, and using this to advantage, I took a relatively lengthy stroll through the most solemn of streets, towards the bus stop.
All in all, taking everything into account, Sunset Boulevard isn't "ruthless" or "lethal" and I didn't feel, at anytime, like I was about to be engulfed or victimised in a similarly barbarous way. But, simultaneously, it wasn't an enthralling experience by any means. Perhaps I expect too much?
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