Sliders and Ciders. LA.

We wake and munch on our free blueberry muffin and English tea breakfast. Taking their cue from the surly receptionists, the restaurant is operated by a group of surly waitresses. Begrudgingly we are seated and torture ourselves in wether we should tip for a breakfast that was free and surly.

The Adventure tradewinds hostel/suites look different in the daytime and bask in a Californian heat wave we gladly imbibe. The temperature remains fiercely pleasant allowing us to remain in shorts and t-shirts for most of the time. The sun illuminates the urban landscape with a yellowy orange glow and sprinklers do a good job of keeping the grass green. Overhead, planes regularly pass loudly and we realise we are staying on a flight path to LAX airport. The planes come so close, they rattle the shutters of our slightly ropey ensuite bathroom. The swimming pool is heated as steam emanates throughout the day and well into the night. We feel a slight relief to be on American soil and a TV in the room feels like a luxury. The second TV in our room feels like absolute decadence. And it is.

We clamber into the hotel’s shuttle bus which takes us to the Hawthorne, green line train platform and get the train/tube from Inglewood (just outside Compton) into central LA. Our shuttle driver is big of booty and full of life. She has an infectious laugh that fills the bus and she is generous with her local knowledge in conversation. L.A. is really, really big and it takes the train an hour to get from Inglewood to the center of Hollywood. The train is seemingly full of prospective Jerry Springer audience members as junkies bicker amongst themselves, riling each other throughout the journey.
“Who yo callin’ bitch? Bitch!” Onlookers get involved in the bicker but get owned by a whip witted black female who is extremely light on her tongue.

The neighbourhoods we travel through are noticeably similar to the video game GTA San Andreas and reek of west side L.A. gangster archetypes. We should be weary but find ourselves feeling a bit brave after only a brief scathing in South America. The trains seem surprisingly well kept considering the area they operate inside.

Entrepreneurial types move through the trains selling sweets and cigarettes for small dollar bills and charm their way through the carriages. Our Californian TAP cards work in a similar way to an Oyster card, so we Juice them up with dollars and travel around LA all day.

We stop off at Santa Monica boulevard and have a meatball marinara Subway sandwich which tastes totes amazemeatballs. The free refill policy appears to be hydrating the entire homeless population of central L.A. as a steady hobo stream enters to drain the drink dispenser dry.

Back on the train we head towards the center of Hollywood. We exit the underground station and are immediately enticed into an open top car ride around the Hollywood hills. Before the trip starts we have a little time to walk the Hollywood strip, taking in the celebrity name stars which adorn the pavements of the street. We manage to get a photo or two with celebrities names (just their names, not the actual celebs) such as Steve Guttenberg and Pee wee Herman, and walk past the famous Chinese theatre, home to many a movie premiere and currently owned/sponsored by Kodak and Dolby. An expensive white hot Audi languishes beside the theatre as an advertisement for a new line of sports cars.

This central area of Hollywood is dripping with money. The lavishness of the shops intensify and security is high as they prepare for a C-list celebrity film launch. On a large billboard stand three actors I have never heard of. Apparently there is a premiere every single night of the year except for Christmas. Well known shops double and triple in size here, taking on almost warehouse size status.

A number of made up actors dress up like famous celebrities and will pose with you for a small fee. Jack Sparrow, Bumblebee (from Transformers), Beetlejuice and Spider-Man all strike their respective poses with the tourists. A large black man supports a massive orange spotted constrictor snake and lays it on the shoulders of anyone that will slip him five dollars for a photo. Young rap artists demand you accept their free CDs, desperate to build a following for their work. Street dancers perform intricate routines for the crowds. The sidewalks fill up like small auditoriums and there is a vibrant crackling energy in the air.

We board the open top van and begin our journey around Hollywood. Our guide is largely eccentric with a German tinge to his voice that has been pummelled with a Southern-Californian accent hammer (Outside the van, Captain Latin America poses for a photo). The driver rattles through a number of celebrity stories, some of which go nowhere, but he finds them funny all the same (Our driver points out the location in which Richard Gere’s white lotus has clutch problems in Pretty Woman). River Phoenix and Heath ledger’s final overdosed resting places are also pointed out as a commodity on the trip.

The sun is beginning to set over the Hollywood hills and a chill descends into the back of the open top van (again I make the wrong choice to wear shorts and Tshirt). Luckily there are blankets to keep us snug, but the cool night air signals winter is coming. We stop to take in the Hollywood sign high in the Hollywood hills. It is iconic but distant and we look forward to getting close up to the sign. We pass a number of famous Hollywood landmarks like Mel’s drive in, Chateau Marmaunt (where John Belushi overdosed), the sky bar (a haunt for the very rich Hollywood kids like Paris Hilton/Nicole Richie) the famous Beverly Hills sign, and Johnny Depp’s Viper room bar before reaching a number of celebrity houses of today’s movie elite.

J-lo’s house is first up and seems fairly small and innocuous for a celebrity with her stature and overly coveted derrière. We pass the house used by Whitney Houston and Kevin Costner in the bodyguard film but nobody is home (definitely not Whitney). We observe and learn Wayne manor from the Tim Burton Batman films was also used for as Jack Nicholson’s gaff in The Witches of Eastwick. The Osbournes house used in their reality TV show is also close by but unfrequented by Satan’s favourite lounge singer (the Osbournes moved house years ago). Along another street is Tom Cruise’s house which is massive and incredibly secluded. Tom must have looked tiny when he lived there.

Jim carrey’s house also seems reasonably sedate with nothing too wacky to signal the presence of the comedy master. Michael Jackson used to live opposite Elvis Presley’s house, giving him maximum opportunity to soak up the King’s aura. Our driver stops by the back gate to inform us we are looking at the most photographed gate in the world, the gate in which MJ was wheeled through in a body bag when he overdosed on a cocktail of propofol and benzodiazepine. Our guide’s humour is a little on the dark side.

Rodeo drive is incredibly extravagant with wall to wall Armani, Gucci, and Chanel type shops jostling for dominance on the gold paved high street. The interiors of the shops are flagrantly ostentatious with the walls seemingly bleeding one hundred dollar bills. Sharp dressed suits defend the entrances from the poor and penniless. It’s just like being in Pretty Woman.

Our next stop is the Hollywood sign which becomes a massive letdown. Due to the Daylight savings time change we arrive to the vantage point in darkness. And for some reason, the sign isn’t lit up. Incredulously, we stare somewhere towards the sign in complete darkness. Whilst he doesn’t admit it, we think the Germ-ifornian messed up his timing.

Our final stop is an incredible view over Hollywood and LA at night time. The smog levels combined with a heat vapour give a warm and spectacular view from the hills of Beverly. The overly populated Los Angeles highways shimmer and sparkle in the nighttime emulating a giant stream reflecting a starcloth through the center of the giant city.

Back at the Hollywood strip we are drawn into a massive Hard Rock Cafe which has a huge guitar on the exterior vying for everyone’s attention. I suspect this axe is visible from space. Toilet trips are still more frequent than we would like but the food is overscaled and sumptuous. We fill ourselves with sliders and ciders.

Amazing rock memorabilia from the annals (ahem) of rock history hangs around us, a Clapton guitar here, an Metallica drum skin there, a Mötley Crüe signed thong, Shakira’s cave girl bikini from her first album etc, reside in alarmed cases just above our heads. Giant LED screens play nonstop rock videos and the waitresses excel in informal customer service. “Hey there. My name’s Debbie and I’ll be hanging out with you guys tonight”.

Back near Inglewood, returning home, we are five minutes from our destination train stop, so we call our hotel shuttle to come and pick us up. The time is 10.30 at night. We wait pretty patiently for the first twenty minutes but for the next half hour BRITISH COMPLAINT MAN starts to get riled. The shuttle simply fails to turn up.

As a deciding factor in walking the lengthy distance to our hotel we are approached by a scary looking dude who is shouting at himself on the hunt for a cigarette. He is wearing a long black trench-coat which only serves to vilify his persona. The man is already angry but our lack of tobacco angers him further. He stomps around, swearing at us and anyone around him, as we accelerate down the road in the opposite direction.

We arrive back at our hotel and collapse into bed. An accomplished, long LA day completed, hanging out with the stars. We contemplate the day and listen to the planes shaking our windows.