Venice beach

We caught a bus all the way from downtown Los Angeles to Santa Monica for the bargain price of just $1.50 each. If I tell you that this journey is almost 20 miles in length then you will understand our high-fiving each other on realising what we were getting for our money.  That's a figure of speech of course. There was no opportunity to high-five or even sit, travel in comfort or avoid having our personal space invaded by a multitude of Angelinos, so crowded was it.  To be fair we had picked a bank holiday to hit the beach so we were perhaps the architects of our own undoing. There was one slightly unsavoury incident on board where a young girl of around 13 got on with her father only to fall into the body of an attitude-heavy youth when the bus lurched around corners. After the second occasion he said rather menacingly something along the lines of "Yo better hang on to your man sister or ". The poor girl looked really shocked and upset and I really felt for her. After about an hour we were released from our sweaty incarceration and dispatched onto the seafront at the end of Santa Monica boulevard. With Santa Monica being ridiculously expensive we had opted for a backstreet motel about halfway between Santa Monica and Venice so we set off in that direction with the sun blazing above us. We soon found our motel and were immediately deflated. It was a pitiful place, dark, ancient, with broken window, suspect door lock and dreadfully uncomfortable bed. Thankfully we'd only booked one night and we immediately set to work looking for an alternative. What a godsend the Internet is for such situations. I mean, just what would you do without it and without a car? I guess you'd just set off on Shank's pony and hope to get lucky but it's hard work. I've done it before, most notably in Stockholm when I initially turned down a youth hostel because it was too expensive, walked around in circles for about 4 hours and ultimately ended up paying more at the original hostel than quoted as all the dorms were now full so I had to take a private room! We had a shufty online but came up with little so went out to a bizarre Hawaiian-based takeaway for some food to mull everything over.  Back at the gaff I had a quick look at Venice beach as an alternative and found a place right on the beach front which, albeit a bit more than we wanted to pay, looked just great.  We figured we could scrimp a bit on food and recoup some cash by virtue of the fact we'd just be lazing on the beach so we booked it. Next morning after a bizarre Hawaiian breakfast (omelette with rice and cabbage!) we walked the mile or so to the Cadillac hotel and immediately felt right at home. It was bank holiday Monday, Memorial Day, so the place was absolutely awash with people. We took a walk up the boardwalk (seafront promenade to you) and got our first taste of what a special place this is. It's not everyone's cup of tea, I realise that, In fact I wasn't certain it was mine right away but it would grow on me immeasurably during our stay. On that first foray we first of all encountered the unique stalls and wares that make being here so interesting. There are artists selling paintings, hair braiders, jewellery vendors, henna tattooists, real tattooists, homeless people selling signs handwritten on cardboard, a guy selling handwritten passages from the bible, beggars, skateboarders, poets, mystic Meg types and musicians. Ah! The musicians. If you're friends with Kerry on facebook you may have watched the video clip of the black guy playing the violin while the strange guy in the green stove pipe hat bobs about behind him. If so then you'll have had a glimpse of how wonderful that was. Impromptu music, busking, singing, whatever, so often provides some of the most memorable events and this is one that will long live in my memory. It was absolutely brilliant and I would gladly pay to go and watch him and his band. Next up was Harry Perry.  Harry who? I hear you say. No, I'd never heard of him either but he gets a mention in the Lonely Planet so he warranted a bit of investigation. Harry Perry is a 61 year old guy who dresses up as a Sikh each day and roller blades along the Venice boardwalk playing electric guitar and selling tee shirts. If that's not weird enough for you then perhaps the fact that he has done so for 39 years is. Not only that, he's toured with "System of a Down" and appeared as himself in several Hollywood Movies. Google him, he's a legend. To help us wind down and get into beach/holiday mode we invested a few shekels in some Californian red and sat atop our hotel on the terrace and watched the sun go down over the hills. It really was a truly memorable sight, beautifully coloured sky and palm trees silhouetted against it. It seems our vino was a tad on the potent side for poor Kerry who drank a sufficient quantity to decide to retire at about 9pm and enabled her to sleep for 11 hours solid. We wouldn't sleep so well next night! The following day was spent just lazing on the beach, and what a beach! 3 or 4 miles long and a hundred metres wide of the deepest and most golden sand you could wish for. Add to this a palm lined boardwalk and a tepid Pacific Ocean and you pretty much have my idea of nirvana. At last some chill time after seemingly an age either on the road or charging about LA. Time to read, listen to music, swim or just do nothing. Back in Blighty I find it so hard to do nothing and I'm probably not alone in only getting 7 to 7 and a half hours sleep per night. Since coming away I've found my sleeping mojo and now regularly put in 9 or 10 hour shifts. And dreams! My mind must be unravelling at some rate given the vividness of my night time subconscious. They're largely about my daughters but work colleagues are figuring pretty largely too at present. That evening we walked inland a little and found a great canteen where fresh vegetables were available. There has been a dearth of fresh veg since day one so we grabbed this opportunity to rapaciously gorge on broccoli and carrots in an almost unseemly way. Still feeling a little of the effects of last nights vino we went to bed at about 10pm though I couldn't nod off for some reason. I read a little and then, at about midnight, just as I was beginning to tire, our next door neighbours came in and began to party. Their revelry lasted until about 1am and they sounded stoned as everything either one of them said was followed by Beavis and Butthead style chuckling. I wasn't sure whether to knock on the wall. You never know if you're going to ask for trouble in such situations. Unbeknownst to me Kerry was also lying there listening to it and she called down to reception to complain, not that it had any effect. At 1am they went out so we had peace at last but I still couldn't nod off. At 2am a lady across the corridor began to audibly show her lover just how good a time he was giving her which, while mildly amusing for about 5 minutes, was anything but a full hour later. An hour? What sort of hero is this guy? I have to be careful what I write here because my mum reads this but dear God! If I amalgamated a month's worth I'm not certain I could ensure Kerry could keep half a hotel awake for that long! We're at 3am before peace reigns once more and I finally nod off, only to have another vivid dream about not being able to reach Jasmine and India. This was a particularly disturbing one and I woke with a start at 4am, now desperate for a pee too. I lie awake until 5 thinking about my dream, fell asleep for another hour and was then woken by a message from Jasmine asking why I hadn't Skyped her as we'd arranged. Only then did I realise I'd got my knickers in a twist over time differences. It's so bloody confusing. We started off 5 hours ahead of the UK but are now 8, 9 hours behind Melbourne but we're now 15. (hang on, that can't be right. You see, I still don't have a clue) To compound a miserable night the stoners came home at 7 and began playing guitar! I gave up and put the telly on and lay there in a vegetative state until Kerry stirred at about 8:30. Because we were both cream crackered the next day we weren't really up for the 8 mile cycle ride along the beachfront, though it was nice to get out on 2 wheels, albeit a single speed beach cruiser noddy bike. With a basket. We went on Santa Monica pier, bought some postcards and sat and watched some acrobats while we ate our lunch of fresh fruit. After 6 weeks of eating the American way we've both put on a bit of weight so we've finally decided enough is enough. Lunch is likely to consist of salad, fruit or zip until such time as the popper on my favourite trousers doesn't ping open when I take a leak. After a bit more lazing on the beach we ventured back up the boardwalk and took in a few more of the sights. We saw Harry Perry again (you can't miss him, he's there every day), an ego centric young body builder on muscle beach who was inviting people to take pics of him as he postured and posed, an old guy in red speedos playing YMCA loudly on his ghetto blaster and another guy in speedos and on roller blades brandishing a huge claw on which he had arranged jewellery. It is utterly bizarre and yet so captivating. Add in about 2 or 3 hundred homeless people into this mix and you really do have one of the most fascinating places on this earth to people watch. When it was time to leave Venice I didn't want to. We sat at breakfast watching an old rasta, Abraham, emerge from his decrepit camper van on the seafront and set up his paintings for the x000th time. A pretty blonde girl was with him helping and we went over to chat to her once we'd finished eating. It turns out that she'd given up her life in Missouri to shack up with 60 something Abraham and live in his van. She told us that her chap had been there since 1967. 1967. The summer of love. The year Sargeant Pepper was released. My parents had been married for just 8 years. My 50 year old bro' was only 5. Neither Kerry nor I were born. Abraham knew Jim Morrison when he lived in Venice. Unfortunately we'd already booked our next nights accommodation, in San Diego, otherwise I'd have pressed for us to stay in Venice a while longer. Maybe it's for the best we didn't. Perhaps it would be me roller blading around in my undercrackers in 20 years time. As we were leaving I bought a banana and a drink for a homeless lady whose gaze I'd met going into the shop and that was it, we were on our way. We were San Diego bound for two reasons: it was to be a quick rest stop while we galvanised ourselves for the crossing into Mexico and we also needed to get some medication. We also took the opportunity to send a parcel of unwanted items home.  It cost a fair bit but Kerry is a lot happier now she's not lugging around those 2 spurious bags and a rather heavy present she'd been nursing since Arizona. After a great train journey down the SoCal coast, San Diego was surprisingly beautiful, though we only saw the downtown area. It's a really lively city with loads of restaurants and bars. We stayed in a hostel here and after visiting the docs about Kerry's eye we had a great night out in the House of Blues, possibly the only such named joint on earth where one could watch rock, folk and jazz but no blues. Ah well. Onwards and downwards, south to the border and beyond where Kerry can begin to practise her espanol.  Eh mi cordera pequena?   Our first stop is Tijuana to acquaint ourselves with Mehico and then we'll be heading down the Baja.