Land of the free and home of the shopping cart dweller

Coming in to Los Angeles is a familiar script nowadays. This may be the seventh or eighth time descending from pristine blue altitude towards a thick blanket of grime that reminds me of a daytime pub atmosphere before the ban – topped by a pall of tobacco smoke. This one is pierced all over by tall skinny palm trees and as we get closer to the ground, blotches of turquoise back yard pools highlight the homes of the affluent. Eight lane freeways snake through repeating patterns of industrial and residential sprawl before tailing off in the distance to places like San Diego, Pasadena, Burbank and east towards Texas. That vast expanse of desert encountered just a few short months ago.

This arrival is as easy as any. The border paranoia seems worse from the outside – though I know it is not this easy for everyone. Through and out the other side in less than 30 minutes to wait for the blue super shuttle back to the stamping ground of H Santa Monica, surely one of the best hostels in the best locations on the planet. If it had a pool it would be perfect.

But who needs a pool with the ocean just a block away? The backdrop of affluence seems to have cranked up another gear since a year or two ago. The contrast of the shopping cart dwellers on the esplanade at the warm edge of the continent has not shifted, yet is another degree removed by the move at the other end of the spectrum.

The haze over the city is as bad as I have seen – maybe worse. The mountains at the north end of the beach are barely visible. The air seems unusually hard to breathe, but life goes on in all its glory.

The pier is really crowded – seems I have landed in a holiday weekend for labour day. All the beautiful people are out in force. A busker with no name sounding like Jimi Hendrix – about the same age had Hendrix survived the excesses of the 70s s,d and r and r culture which sadly of course he did not. Two CDs for $20 and a photo later I have some good souvenirs and he is one happy busker.

A leisurely stroll along to Venice Beach brings back many familiar sights.

Back to the pier I started from, I play voyeur to a photographer and a wet Asian model as the light fades far enough into late afternoon to allow pictures to be taken without washing out. Its better light than NZ and Australia with the hole in the ozone layer that afflicts that part of the world. better, but not much, and that is no accolade.

A young couple make me smile – they have never seen a sail boat as big as one cruising past the pier and insist take a picture. The Viaduct Basin and the Waitemata Harbour back home in NZ peppered with floating palaces would surely be a treat for their gorgeous hispanic eyes.