My head still feels skewered. The flight from San Francisco was unpleasant; I’m sure the cabin pressure was wrong. My ears had popped as if the 1812 Overture was being played in my head, using blown-up paper bags. My boyfriend, Paul, and our friend, Toby, both complained of heads like burst balloons.
Now, waiting at the car rental place, the excitement of being in LA acts as an analgesic. Keen to fit into the California lifestyle, I rent a convertible. Later I remember that, for the sake of health (smog) and safety (carjacking), real Angelinos don’t ordinarily drive around with the top down. To cope with the heat, they use air-con – not that they are considering this December ‘hot’. The cool, ardent winds that had brought us in are reported on the news as being “a cold winter.”
I’ve never driven in another country, but I have driven an automatic. Once. On a film job a few years back. On a test track. When it was closed. At night. I nearly put the cameraman through the windscreen a few times. Here, it’s a right-hand drive and I’ll be on the other side of the road, observing different signs and different rules. But I feel positive.
I ask the boys to holler if I drift to the left, which, for the most part of our week’s stay, I won’t. There will, however, be one unfortunate incident. Coming down Laurel Canyon Boulevard at night, I will get confused by the road markings. Traffic will head straight at us. Paul will yell at me and I will snap at him. But we will be fine.
With Toby squished in the back with the luggage, we set off for West Hollywood. I take to the driving surprisingly well. After a few minutes on the freeway, we gasp in excited unison as nine 45-foot high letters proudly welcome us to “Hollywood.”
We are staying at the home of a journalist friend, Avik. He arrived from Palestine when he was eighteen, back in the era of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe. He has interviewed just about everyone that has ever made a name in Hollywood and will happily spend hours telling tales that make most of today’s stars look like amateurs.
I park directly outside the house, on a road between Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards, twelve blocks from Graumann’s Chinese Theatre. Stepping out of the car, I feel a soft crunch underneath my feet. Looking down, I cannot immediately identify the dark red seeds stuck to my trainers. Looking up, I realise they have dropped from the regally waving branches of the giant palm trees above.
The house is a white picket-fenced, green-fronted Californian renovated bungalow. The front door is flanked by two plate-glass windows, through which is a darkened sitting room that I imagine is a cool refuge on warmer days. Our presence brings the living room to life by the way of two mongrels – Jimmy and Kasper. They will soon become familiar friends, often visiting our room to snooze on the balcony. One time, I worry that they have left something ‘unpleasant’ in the room. It will turn out to be crushed palm seeds, but I still worry because Avik is concerned about his new carpets. Understandable. Yet, on the last day, I catch Kasper peeing on Toby’s pillow. So that explains the pale orange stains on the bedding and floors...
Avik greets us as family. Elaine, his English wife, is away but her influence is everywhere. Framed pictures of London and a stack of differently-sized Marmite jars in the kitchen make us feel at home.
Keen to get out into the bright, hazy afternoon, we head back out and head towards the beach. Driving down Santa Monica Boulevard – shades on, top down and radio blaring; this is how to do Christmas Eve! We pass a silent movie theatre, Barney’s Beanery (where Janis Joplin had her final meal) , the pristine Rodeo Drive and a man walking a Chihuahua in his pyjamas (the man, not the dog).
I expect parking to be expensive, but it isn’t - compared to London. It’s a quarter of the price to park on the pier here for ten hours than to park for five hours at my local shopping centre.
We amble past buskers, vendors and artists to the pier-end to get a prime view of the approaching sunset. Couples and families stroll, relaxed and smiling. One woman pushes cats in a buggy. “Only in America...”
It takes less than three minutes for the sun to fall below the horizon. It is unforgettable. The crowd around us cheer and applaud as if this is a special effect crafted in a nearby film studio. When they leave, we stay behind, to contemplatively watch the sky and sea merge through the entire colour palate to an oily black. As the stars materialise, the wind picks up, causing my hair to gently lash at my face.
Toby, usually a smiling and jolly soul, looks pensive. He has never been away from home at Christmas before and misses his family. To cheer him up, we drop into the In'n'Out Burger on Sunset, where we spot Peter Fonda slowly chewing on a burger whilst looking into blank space. Perhaps he needs a Christmas Eve treat too.
Back outside Avik’s house, bits of palm tree are scattered everywhere. Looking up, I notice that the branches now are not so much ‘regally waving’ as ‘frantically gesturing’.
I stay up alone for a while, to email home and wish everyone a Happy Christmas. Toby’s gentle snoring, rising from the floor (where he chooses to sleep) has a lullaby effect, so I join Paul, already far into dreamland, in the high four-poster bed. Sinking into its soft, cradling mattress, I close my eyes and look forward to getting presents in the morning.
Just above the whispering television, I hear the singing wind gently stir the windchimes on the balcony. The grapefruit trees in the garden scratch the windows as if someone is out there.
Or...could it be...? Santa Claus..?
Now, waiting at the car rental place, the excitement of being in LA acts as an analgesic. Keen to fit into the California lifestyle, I rent a convertible. Later I remember that, for the sake of health (smog) and safety (carjacking), real Angelinos don’t ordinarily drive around with the top down. To cope with the heat, they use air-con – not that they are considering this December ‘hot’. The cool, ardent winds that had brought us in are reported on the news as being “a cold winter.”
I’ve never driven in another country, but I have driven an automatic. Once. On a film job a few years back. On a test track. When it was closed. At night. I nearly put the cameraman through the windscreen a few times. Here, it’s a right-hand drive and I’ll be on the other side of the road, observing different signs and different rules. But I feel positive.
I ask the boys to holler if I drift to the left, which, for the most part of our week’s stay, I won’t. There will, however, be one unfortunate incident. Coming down Laurel Canyon Boulevard at night, I will get confused by the road markings. Traffic will head straight at us. Paul will yell at me and I will snap at him. But we will be fine.
With Toby squished in the back with the luggage, we set off for West Hollywood. I take to the driving surprisingly well. After a few minutes on the freeway, we gasp in excited unison as nine 45-foot high letters proudly welcome us to “Hollywood.”
We are staying at the home of a journalist friend, Avik. He arrived from Palestine when he was eighteen, back in the era of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe. He has interviewed just about everyone that has ever made a name in Hollywood and will happily spend hours telling tales that make most of today’s stars look like amateurs.
I park directly outside the house, on a road between Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards, twelve blocks from Graumann’s Chinese Theatre. Stepping out of the car, I feel a soft crunch underneath my feet. Looking down, I cannot immediately identify the dark red seeds stuck to my trainers. Looking up, I realise they have dropped from the regally waving branches of the giant palm trees above.
The house is a white picket-fenced, green-fronted Californian renovated bungalow. The front door is flanked by two plate-glass windows, through which is a darkened sitting room that I imagine is a cool refuge on warmer days. Our presence brings the living room to life by the way of two mongrels – Jimmy and Kasper. They will soon become familiar friends, often visiting our room to snooze on the balcony. One time, I worry that they have left something ‘unpleasant’ in the room. It will turn out to be crushed palm seeds, but I still worry because Avik is concerned about his new carpets. Understandable. Yet, on the last day, I catch Kasper peeing on Toby’s pillow. So that explains the pale orange stains on the bedding and floors...
Avik greets us as family. Elaine, his English wife, is away but her influence is everywhere. Framed pictures of London and a stack of differently-sized Marmite jars in the kitchen make us feel at home.
Keen to get out into the bright, hazy afternoon, we head back out and head towards the beach. Driving down Santa Monica Boulevard – shades on, top down and radio blaring; this is how to do Christmas Eve! We pass a silent movie theatre, Barney’s Beanery (where Janis Joplin had her final meal) , the pristine Rodeo Drive and a man walking a Chihuahua in his pyjamas (the man, not the dog).
I expect parking to be expensive, but it isn’t - compared to London. It’s a quarter of the price to park on the pier here for ten hours than to park for five hours at my local shopping centre.
We amble past buskers, vendors and artists to the pier-end to get a prime view of the approaching sunset. Couples and families stroll, relaxed and smiling. One woman pushes cats in a buggy. “Only in America...”
It takes less than three minutes for the sun to fall below the horizon. It is unforgettable. The crowd around us cheer and applaud as if this is a special effect crafted in a nearby film studio. When they leave, we stay behind, to contemplatively watch the sky and sea merge through the entire colour palate to an oily black. As the stars materialise, the wind picks up, causing my hair to gently lash at my face.
Toby, usually a smiling and jolly soul, looks pensive. He has never been away from home at Christmas before and misses his family. To cheer him up, we drop into the In'n'Out Burger on Sunset, where we spot Peter Fonda slowly chewing on a burger whilst looking into blank space. Perhaps he needs a Christmas Eve treat too.
Back outside Avik’s house, bits of palm tree are scattered everywhere. Looking up, I notice that the branches now are not so much ‘regally waving’ as ‘frantically gesturing’.
I stay up alone for a while, to email home and wish everyone a Happy Christmas. Toby’s gentle snoring, rising from the floor (where he chooses to sleep) has a lullaby effect, so I join Paul, already far into dreamland, in the high four-poster bed. Sinking into its soft, cradling mattress, I close my eyes and look forward to getting presents in the morning.
Just above the whispering television, I hear the singing wind gently stir the windchimes on the balcony. The grapefruit trees in the garden scratch the windows as if someone is out there.
Or...could it be...? Santa Claus..?
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