In the morning, I rent a bike at Venice Beach, which is like a snapshot of America. While the south end of Venice Beach is lined with multi-million dollar beach houses, up the road is a car park inhabited by itinerant buses and camper vans in varying stages of decay. There are quite a few sleeping vagrants along the path, with the beach showers and toilets providing them with convenient facilities. The weather today is windy and overcast, so the famous population of body building exhibitionists that have earned part of the beach the sobriquet of ‘muscle beach’ are not so prevalent, though there are still a fair number of fitness nuts who regularly run or speedily cycle along the 'boardwalk' (dubbed this despite it being a cement path) at the top of the beach. There is also a line of eccentric merchants and touts, such as Doctor Weed, who prescribes ways of using hashish without being able to supply it. Then there is a man dressed as a stylish looking member of the Taliban on roller-skates, though instead of an AK47, he is carrying an electric guitar. The weather being what it is though, I shouldn’t have been surprised to find half the voices overhear in passing have British accents.
I cycle onward to Santa Monica Pier, a bustling hub of tourism complete with a fairground, restaurant stalls, tourist tat stalls and an array of buskers. Looking down onto the beach, I notice some gigantic footprints in the sand, with some crushed beach patrol vehicles falling into them, while a film crew conducts an interview with someone who was probably from Universal Studios Theme Park, which notices inform us is where King Kong has moved onto leaving a trail of destruction.
Driving down to Rodondo Beach, a name in my memory because of a Patti Smith song, I find that it has not so much of a bohemian character as Venice, but rather more of a sedate seaside elegance. I say sedate, because there is next to nobody here, though there is a gaggle of fishermen at the end of the pier.
It is here that I find an Irish bar where I have a pint of Guinness before stopping at a slightly pretentious looking French / Japanese fusion restaurant. There is no air of pretention with the patrons though, as the only other inhabited table is occupied by a young couple in beach clothes, while I am wearing my by now ragged travel garb. I sit at a table by a window and watch the few people on the beach scuttle about in the breeze while waiting for my prawn and crab ravioli. As you would expect from this location, the shellfish is very fresh, as is the pasta. This is probably the classiest meal I have had in the past year.
I also visit Manhattan Beach, but I don’t stay long as it is just not a beach day.
In the evening, I meet up with Stewart again, who takes me to a Mexican restaurant in his roofless MG Midget, and we both order Burritos which are the size of a heavily built biceps.
At the weekends, the restaurant hosts live music. This week’s poster advertises an 80s tribute act, and features illustrated depictions of Robert Smith of The Cure, Slash and, er, Sammy Hagar, we think...
No comments:
Post a Comment