With all of this on my conscience, I set off this morning eager to uncover the last portion of Los Angeles that my many guide books insist is worth a stroll. Long Beach would be the most southerly attraction in Los Angeles I would adventure to, and unsurprisingly, the most southerly on my scholarship, though it doesn't quite win the trophy for the most southerly in my life; that is awarded to an unforgettable strip of sand in the Sahara Desert. To access Long Beach- even to achieve a glance of it- involves the traveller having to endure close to three hours of metro commuting, through some of Los Angeles' most unkempt, ram shackled neighbourhoods. Perhaps even more frustrating is the fact that this three hour transit is divided into two separate rides, with the first heading in nearly the opposite direction to Long Beach. This clear absence of logic with regards to the public transport system here in Los Angeles does very little to settle the unwary traveller, but being the only feasible way to my desired destination, I bore the brunt and proceeded.
When the first segment of the journey met it's final destination, in Downtown Los Angeles, I withdrew myself from the usual display of morning automotive chaos and purchased a deletable hot chocolate and a pastry also delightfully of the chocolate persuasion, before I boarded the southwards bus towards Long Beach. Our battle for a unhindered journey with commuting engines and spinning tyres was a long, painfully extensive one, and yet our confinement concluded abruptly in the most unexpected of locations; underneath the most repellent of bridges, saturated in a thick menacing gloom, overflowing with a sense of undiminished dread, and engulfed in the most disagreeable of aromas as if under this bridge housed the bowels of Los Angeles. I took a few exploratory steps through the abhorrence, and realised without any map, I had little if any idea of where both the detestation and I were in relation to Long Beach. I quickly engaged myself in a brief session of orienteering and after concluding that there was only one road to take anyway, I set off.
There are, I've decided after months of travelling, two types of unknowns. They both reside in places unexplored by the traveller; not necessarily uncharted territory, but segments of the planet you, yourself, haven't passed through. One of these 'unknowns' soughts to aid the tourist, by offering as much hospitality as possible; maps on stands, a host of comprehensible street signs, some method of displaying compass direction, and a string of shops hosted by charming owners who find pleasure in assisting the lost, free of charge. Locations that find themselves in this category are ones that the visitor labels 'unfamiliar yet homely'. Unfortunately, the other 'unknown' is truly a bewildering place; befuddling the visitor, and ensuring that their every step confounds them even more. It's a place that treats foreigners as aliens, and it's this category that I regrettably slot Long Beach into.
For the first time on this journey, the Sun beat down on me like a sledgehammer, piercing through my flesh and grilling me as if I was a slab of meat to be sandwiched inside a bun. I persisted nevertheless, in anticipation of finding the beach, but the further I walked, the more disconcerting the surroundings seemed to be. Partitioning a wide expanse of road was a grass verge, well weathered though exposing large patches of bare earth. I passed a row of uninviting shops, with tinted glass and bedraggled walls, and when I peered inside, I caught only silhouettes and shadows. The beach didn't seem to be within eye distance, so I stopped by what could be classed as a newsagents, half-hoping that there would be a charming owner who finds pleasure in assisting the lost, free of charge, to ask what specific patch of planet I was trekking aimlessly through.
The shop was half-lit, but with natural light, I studied the store I had strolled into. It was stocked from floor to ceiling with everything that one might possibly require for life, and I imagined that residents of Long Beach shopped nowhere else. Leaning in boredom against the till, which perched on a well worn wooden tabletop, (a true carpenters bench) was what I assumed to be the store manager, though he possessed no more authority than the customers behind me. "Excuse me, I'm looking for the beach," I asked, cautious that I was stepping through a language barrier that probably wouldn't shift. "You at Long Beach now," the figure replied, after a seconds hesitation and a few more seconds of formulating the most grammatically correct sentence he could manage. "No, I know, but I want the beach...the coastline!" I made the most intriguing curving shape with my hand to demonstrate the coastline, but this only befuddled him more. "Sand, you know, the beach with sand" I reiterated, and instantly this manifested a sudden beam as if we shared a deep passion for the place. "Yes, the beach, umm, you go on freeway...to..umm," he looked round at a customer he obviously knew standing behind me. "he wants beach, so he goes to freeway one and then...," and immediately a deep thorough exploration of what seemed to be a handful of possible routes ensued. The lady seemed to have expertise on the matter, turned to me, and told me exactly what to do. "Listen, you take the the 101 southbound, or is it northbound? Well, anyway, you take the 101, cross to the 88 interchange, make the exit to the 68 westbound, which I always find quicker, than the 47 southbound," and this prompted a small but decisive nod by the rest of the shop. "Once you're on the 68 westbound, continue on for four miles, and you'll get to the highway crossing to the 6th mile of Ocean Avenue. Take a sharp 48 degree easterly turning here, and continue for the next two and a half minutes, but make sure you're travelling at precisely 37 miles per hour. And then you'll be there. Well, you won't see the beach at first. You'll have to fight through an overgrown hedge, walk through the lobby of the Grand Hotel, out the cleaners cupboard window, and then you'll see the sand."
Well, words to that effect. I felt very far from home. "And what about if you're walking?" I quizzed, but I only received a small chuckle from the store manager and a look at bedazzlement from the Spanish lady, who gazed at me as if I was attempting to break a world record. She broke out of this trance and then admitted: "That's a long walk. Miles!" I acknowledged their efforts, in any case, and stumbled out in the most dejected of exits.
I relinquished my quest to head for the beach, but didn't have much of an alternative plan either, so I decided to head back to the bus stop, still not believing these moments were shaping what would be my final ones in the United States. I took a detour, in the search of some sub standard adventure, but I found myself still enveloped in a bubble of passiveness. Having said this, it was at least agreeable. The houses were kept in a comparatively better fashion, with grasses trimmed, and windows cleaned. Playing innocently in the street, I passed a few young children, unguarded and unleashed. They took off on their bikes, to another house, and called from the drive towards what I imagine were the bedroom windows of their friends. Whilst it was a pleasant enough neighbourhood, simultaneously, it felt like the residents here seldom if ever ventured off it; as if, by ritual, they were confined to this one half mile stretch of road.
On the way back, I refreshed my unmoistened gums with a most revitalising ice cream, but even this perceived treat has some drawbacks in Long Beach. Without a bin for the wrapper, my fingers slowly became the victim of a sticky strawberry scented syrup. I boarded the bus, back to Santa Monica, though there was one other possibility to balance out what so far had been a rather uneventful day. The Getty Centre is apparently a fine building, with great views of the city, and a rather extensive selection of apparel outlets. I asked the bus driver upon boarding where exactly it was. "Oh, it's in Westwood. That's miles away from downtown." Miles from downtown? Long Beach was miles from downtown and I wasn't in the mood for another lengthy excursion from civilisation, so I muttered a quiet discouraged "oh" and took my seat.
Let me round up Los Angeles. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. It hasn't met up to expectations, but then perhaps that's partly my fault for having pre-designed ideas on all of the places I've explored. It's not that I've had an atrocious time here in this last segment of the west coast trip; just that, for once, I'm slightly disappointed to witness such decline in what I once believed to be a highly prolific city. I can't put my finger on just what makes it this way; perhaps it's the unmanageable size, or the unwillingness of the inhabitants. Perhaps it's a combination of both, or perhaps it's neither of these things. However, I've come round to thinking that it's these locations- these experiences- that make the greatest moments of this trip all the more memorable.
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