Tales from California: An Excursion to Hollywood

Our contrasting views about Hollywood

The last time Mary was in California, she ended up pretending to be Bosnian in order to keep from getting kicked out of a hostel (who would guess that a USA Hostel wouldn’t allow someone from the USA to stay there?). From her description, Hollywood sounded like a conglomeration of rampant debauchery mixed with Disney World meet-and-greet gone horribly wrong. Thus, I was initially not too excited to go there (actually, I wasn’t very excited about going to LA in general), but Mary really wanted to return to her strange haven of memories.

“Why do you like Hollywood?” I asked her.

“Because out there,” she said, “I’m normal.”

Because I love my sister, I went.

Mary and I hopped off the bus at Hollywood Boulevard, and I walked with fake confidence, trying not to show how nervous I felt. However, when I wasn’t assaulted or raped in the first couple blocks, I began to relax a bit. And when I saw the beginning of the terrazzo-and-brass stars on the sidewalk, I felt a burst of touristy joy.

Of course, we saw all the sights: the Chinese Theatre, the Roosevelt Hotel, the distant letters of the Hollywood sign. We shouldered our way through hordes of people trying to sell bus tours, ate flavorful hot dogs at a little restaurant called Scooby’s, and critiqued the costumed characters flocking around the Chinese Theatre (the guy with the homemade Optimus Prime suit was fantastic, but we railed against the stormtrooper who took off his helmet and the woman dressed as a Playboy bunny who just stood around looking awkward and making everyone else feeling awkward). 

However, since neither of us had any money to spend, our tourist options were pretty limited. I was starting to feel a bit faint in the hot sunlight, and we were running low on water. The reasonable solution to this problem? Walk back to Santa Monica, with only a vague idea of the direction. What could be better than planning to trek 12 miles when you’re feeling under the weather? 

Our fast-paced wander took us into the fringes of West Hollywood, past hot-dog storefronts and classy restaurants and ads for homosexual dating sights and glimpses of skyscrapers clustered together that may or may not have been Los Angeles city. Soon we stumbled onto a smooth tree-lined road, which led into the heart of Beverly Hills. I reveled in the smell of greenness in the air, a balm to my stinging lungs. We refilled our water bottles at a park where a Jewish father and his two little girls watched coy in a pond. We rambled past multi-million-dollar houses with gardens of pansies and crisply-trimmed ivy. We found the road that would lead us back to Santa Monica and walked alongside the roaring traffic as the sky grew deep blue and the streetlamps flickered on. 

We were back in the range of our bus day passes, and could hop on one of these handy vehicles at any time. What did we (and by “we,” I mean “I”) say each time we passed a bus stop? “Buses are for wusses!” And we walked on.

This is why I love traveling with my sister.

After at least 12 miles of steady walking, we limped up to the front door of the hostel, swiped our key card, and trudged up the stairs to our room. We had previously bought tickets for the hostel’s all-you-can-eat barbecue supper ($5 for unlimited burgers, chips, and lemonade), so we headed down to the hostel courtyard to claim our well-deserved meat.

At supper we chatted with a man from Russia named Arthur who had a theory that poor breathing habits are the cause of many common illnesses, and with a man from Mexico named Louis who was traveling around the US. After supper, Mary and I thought about what we might want to do.

“I’ve heard the third street promanade is pretty good,” I said.

“Let’s go,” she said.

We spent the next hour (what else?) walking through one of Santa Monica’s shopping district. The shops glowed, the crowds rambled around goodnaturedly, and Mary and I traipsed around as lightly as if he hadn’t hiked all day. When city lights beckon, the miles fall away. 

I reluctantly admitted that, all things considered, Hollywood wasn’t so bad after all.

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