The boardwalk at Venice Beach is a maelström of humanity. T has informed me in the car that we will most definitely see a guy with a snake, and true to his word, the very first street performer we see wields a slithering sidekick. Approaching from Windward Ave, we pass some inviting restaurants and cafés which give way to a grotesque but expected series of tourist shops blaring pop music and hawking the usual t-shirts, sunglasses and other tchotch, as well as a number of marijuana outlets whose dreadlocked proprietors vie for our dollars like old-time medicine men.
“How are you feeling? Good? I can show you how to feel AMAZING…”
“Wanna kiss the sky?” (or maybe it was “this guy”?)
We make our way to the skate park directly ahead, and marvel at the lithe movements of these ratty young men, who, like all talented performers, make their craft look so easy. Torsos stay erect while hips gyrate to the curves of the concrete bowl. I try not to stare too much, but it’s mesmerizing.
The water is calling me, so we head across the expanse of sand. Giddy as a child, I roll up my jeans, take off shoes and socks and head for the water. T warns me to be careful, look out for needles. It spoils the moment just a little. I stand with the waves lapping my feet, staring into the surf and marveling at the fact that it’s JANUARY and I’m wearing a T-SHIRT and I’m BAREFOOT in the OCEAN!
Sadly, probably due in part to being a little hung over, we have not planned well and have neglected to bring a blanket or books or other sorts of things that one would want handy if one were to pass an afternoon on the beach. This causes me a fair bit of mental anguish, as there is nothing I want more at this moment than to doze off on the sand with the sun caressing my bare arms. Such is life. I focus on the positive (the BEACH! WINTER! T-SHIRT!) and we head back to the boardwalk.
We perform the ritual tourist walk-and-gawk. A man has trained his dog to lie prone while wearing a hot pink lamé bikini, which has dollar bills tucked in and around it. I don’t know whether to be amused or feel sorry for the poor beast. Awful art mingles with even awful-er art and a smattering of decent art. Buskers range from angelic waifs with sunken eyes and clear trembling timbres, to puffy middle aged men tunelessly belting out minor hits of the eighties. Ain’t nothin’ gonna break-ah his stride.
As we stroll on, observing the motley assortment of artists, performers, shysters, freaks and just plain beggars, I marvel at how anyone gets by. Practical me queries: aren’t tourist dollars more apt to be parted with in exchange for a “show” of some sort? How do the homeless and talentless survive? But survive they do, and in droves. Our nostrils are assaulted in a steady stream by the stench of the unbathed. A small parade of Koreans with placards marches past. “Come to Jesus!” exhorts the group’s leader, and the rest of the group echoes in a call and response. “Cooooome tooooo Jeeeeeesus!”
We agree that nothing we’ve seen today can top that, so after fueling up with lunch from a hole-in-the-wall Peruvian joint, we decide we may as well call it a day. The hustlers and hippies and hijinx of the boardwalk will remain as ever, should we choose to return.