The City of Angels
Ah, it's good to be back on the road: That sense of comfort you get from a sweaty money belt chaffing snugly against your hip; The joy of being woken late at night by the Dutch guy you're sharing a room with, who has just come home pissed and has turned on all the lights; and of course that homely comfort of having to shower with sandals on.
I'm amazed (and slightly scared) by how quickly I've fallen back in to the routine. I'm already obsessed with minimizing the size of my pack. I'd culled several superfluous items from it before my first day was through. I've perfected my 30 second bio as well, the one that answers the standard backpacker questions : where are you from? where have you been? where are you going? No one really cares about the answers but exchanging this information is part of the backpacker code, an ancient tradition of unknown origin.
Los Angeles is really just a stop-over for me. I've only two days here and only because I need to kill time between connecting flights. Not wanting to venture too far from the airport I found myself a decent enough hostel down on Venice beach. It's a nice little spot, but full of the most bizarre freaks I've ever seen in my life. A combination of eccentric homeless bums, spaced out hippies, and plastic-bodied, wanna-be celebrities form an unreal and endless parade - a tribute to all that is weird in this world.
I take a walk along the beach on my first day. In the distance I can see Santa Monica pier, a massive fun-fare, with ferris wheels and roller-coasters, built on an old-style wooden pier. As I wander towards the pier swarms of people buzz past me - cyclists, rollerbladers and joggers of all shapes and sizes. I'm forced off the path by a squadron of roller-blading, pram-pushing mums who power past in their bikinis. As I flee to the sand dunes, I'm forced to duck out of the way as a old man (clearly an ex-Vietnam war veteran) comes careening down at me in a peddle-powered sand-buggy, wearing an American flag as a bandana and 'yeeha-ing' like a cowboy.
Back on the path I pass a woman on roller blades being towed by her pet dog. The dog's wearing black, wrap-around sunnies - Samuel L Jackson style. I pass two guys playing chess, one of them wearing a bike helmet and with a beard down to his waist. I pass a leather-skinned grandma wearing a pink singlet and doing laps of the carpark on a skateboard with a windsurfing sail. I pass a guy on roids and a girl made of pure silicon practicing spiking a volley-ball. After they smash the ball through their imaginary opponents, they practice their high-fives and calls of 'right on' and 'awesome'. A little further on, I pass a guy holding a sign that reads: "Tell me off for $1".
Finally I make it to Santa Monica. I decide to wander the Santa Monica boulevard and pick up some gear that I'd not had time to get back home. I venture into the 'Mall' in search of a shirt. Through my search I learn that the Hawaiian shirt comes in more patterns and more colours than I could have ever possibly imagined. After hours of searching, the best gear I find is in a Quicksilver shop - a fine American brand.
After a few meals here I'm now on a sugar high that I won't be coming down from for days. Meal portions are huge: lifting your plate is a work-out in itself and drinks come by the bucket. Even the straws are larger than life, wide enough that you could suck a grape through them. I tried sushi for one meal, hoping to end-up with something near healthy. The four sugar-based sushi rolls were buried under a whole fried chicken, covered in barbecue sauce and with a side dish of chips.
After that I attempted a smoothie from a 'natural health store'. The girl making it had to change the apple-strawberry syrup container before making up my 'fresh' juice. It tasted not unlike a slushie from seven-eleven. I'm now sticking to subway, though it too seems just a bit sweeter than the Aussie version, and they assume you want coke and a packet of chips whenever you order.
I'm on my way back to the airport now and by tomorrow morning should be living it up on the shores of Costa Rica. I meet my team down there around 2pm tomorrow. They've given us a location to meet at, I assume I just turn up and introduce myself to whoever's there: "Hi, I'm Daniel. I'm hear to save the turtles".
I'm amazed (and slightly scared) by how quickly I've fallen back in to the routine. I'm already obsessed with minimizing the size of my pack. I'd culled several superfluous items from it before my first day was through. I've perfected my 30 second bio as well, the one that answers the standard backpacker questions : where are you from? where have you been? where are you going? No one really cares about the answers but exchanging this information is part of the backpacker code, an ancient tradition of unknown origin.
Los Angeles is really just a stop-over for me. I've only two days here and only because I need to kill time between connecting flights. Not wanting to venture too far from the airport I found myself a decent enough hostel down on Venice beach. It's a nice little spot, but full of the most bizarre freaks I've ever seen in my life. A combination of eccentric homeless bums, spaced out hippies, and plastic-bodied, wanna-be celebrities form an unreal and endless parade - a tribute to all that is weird in this world.
I take a walk along the beach on my first day. In the distance I can see Santa Monica pier, a massive fun-fare, with ferris wheels and roller-coasters, built on an old-style wooden pier. As I wander towards the pier swarms of people buzz past me - cyclists, rollerbladers and joggers of all shapes and sizes. I'm forced off the path by a squadron of roller-blading, pram-pushing mums who power past in their bikinis. As I flee to the sand dunes, I'm forced to duck out of the way as a old man (clearly an ex-Vietnam war veteran) comes careening down at me in a peddle-powered sand-buggy, wearing an American flag as a bandana and 'yeeha-ing' like a cowboy.
Back on the path I pass a woman on roller blades being towed by her pet dog. The dog's wearing black, wrap-around sunnies - Samuel L Jackson style. I pass two guys playing chess, one of them wearing a bike helmet and with a beard down to his waist. I pass a leather-skinned grandma wearing a pink singlet and doing laps of the carpark on a skateboard with a windsurfing sail. I pass a guy on roids and a girl made of pure silicon practicing spiking a volley-ball. After they smash the ball through their imaginary opponents, they practice their high-fives and calls of 'right on' and 'awesome'. A little further on, I pass a guy holding a sign that reads: "Tell me off for $1".
Finally I make it to Santa Monica. I decide to wander the Santa Monica boulevard and pick up some gear that I'd not had time to get back home. I venture into the 'Mall' in search of a shirt. Through my search I learn that the Hawaiian shirt comes in more patterns and more colours than I could have ever possibly imagined. After hours of searching, the best gear I find is in a Quicksilver shop - a fine American brand.
After a few meals here I'm now on a sugar high that I won't be coming down from for days. Meal portions are huge: lifting your plate is a work-out in itself and drinks come by the bucket. Even the straws are larger than life, wide enough that you could suck a grape through them. I tried sushi for one meal, hoping to end-up with something near healthy. The four sugar-based sushi rolls were buried under a whole fried chicken, covered in barbecue sauce and with a side dish of chips.
After that I attempted a smoothie from a 'natural health store'. The girl making it had to change the apple-strawberry syrup container before making up my 'fresh' juice. It tasted not unlike a slushie from seven-eleven. I'm now sticking to subway, though it too seems just a bit sweeter than the Aussie version, and they assume you want coke and a packet of chips whenever you order.
I'm on my way back to the airport now and by tomorrow morning should be living it up on the shores of Costa Rica. I meet my team down there around 2pm tomorrow. They've given us a location to meet at, I assume I just turn up and introduce myself to whoever's there: "Hi, I'm Daniel. I'm hear to save the turtles".
posted by Zonski at
5:18 PM
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