So I promise to upload accompanying photos, but in the meantime I am sorting through thousands of them... stay tuned, I'll make it pretty
As I traversed across the great North America, I made little notes, and I now attempt to compile them in some way to depict, detail and record my experiences so I don’t forget them three weeks later… So here’s my first….
Halfway through our trip, we flew out of the truly phenomenal Vancouver ready to begin our American adventures in earnest. We were intending to live and breathe Yankee clichés as we roadtripped to the cultural cataclysm that is Los Angeles.
Our first stop: San Francisco.
To say that I was excited was an understatement. Everyone I had spoken about my trip planning could not manage to find the words to describe San Fran, such was their reliance on hyperbole. I had been told that San Fran was ‘my city’ such is my status as a walking, talking character personification of stuffwhitepeoplelike.com
So I rolled into town, anticipating blissful days spent in Castro and the Mission District feeling ever so hip and culturally special. And whilst San Fran certainly provides these experiences (a truly phenomenal Richard Avedon exhibit at the MOMA and an intimate performance by The Drones for less than 100 people at the amazing price of $10 both highlights), it seems that the old girl has been hit unfairly by the GFC.
Whilst poverty is rife in any American city (indeed it is one of the primary striking features to any Australian used to our glorious state of social welfare), San Francisco was suffering the unfortunate juxtaposition of comparable numbers of tourists and beggars. Indeed, there seemed to be an absence of any real locals, and hence the city has been (temporarily) rendered a mere fusion of haves and have nots.
With this is the state of affairs, it becomes hard to appreciate the truly beautiful architecture and history of the city. The city is reduced to tourist destinations… the F-train connects Fishermans’ Wharf with the Union Square. We can part with money for overpriced food and entertainment, and shop to our hearts’ content, stepping over sleeping bodies as we do so. Haight-Ashbury becomes not the historic heart of the Summer of Love, but a borough benign with stoned hangers-on. The Mission District is not a melting pot of cultures, but a queue of shoppers searching for the nearest Thrift Store to make their purchases in a context devoid of the hipster search for ironic, sustainable fashion.
So indeed, San Fran was a bit of a disappointment. Though not without its merits, I look forward to returning in a few years when it (hopefully) re-establishes to its truly glorious self.
From there it was onwards and upwards (or downwards as our GPS and general geographical principles would have it) to Los Angeles via a brief sojourn to San Diego and Mexico for a few days R&R.
I shall skip these, as that’s a whole other post, and go straight onto LA.
Well, I expected to be disappointed. I expected to be disheartened by a concrete vacuum packed solidly with plastic people. I expected tack.
I was wrong (and pleasantly surprised).
A caveat: LA is what it is. A fake town based on a false economy of false hopes and dreams. I didn’t investigate this, but I’m fairly certain their CBD is in fact Universal Studios, with the majority of economic productivity derived from entertainment industries and associated enterprises. That, and suckers like me paying money to come and see said false economy.
It’s is an incredible mix of shiny plastic faux-reality mixed with the dirt, grime and smut inherent in a city built on looks and egos.
For all the ill-advised aspirationalists, there is a history of previously failed hopes, as well as evidence of success. There are markers of a golden Hollywood past nestled along a strip rich with spray-tan salons, bottle shops and acting studios.
For those of us more accustomed to the tall poppy culture of Down Under, this unbridled ambition is jarring, but compelling nonetheless. Every person you meet has a dream that extends beyond their current position. The waitress dreams of celluloid stardom, the retail worker of musical immortality. The hip kids of Silver Lake punch away on their aluminium cased i-technology awaiting their unique literary genius to be discovered whilst sipping a soy decaf free-trade organic macchiato.
And we are conditioned to shun this raw determination as shallow star chasing. We deride the palm tree pop culture and highways to nowhere.
But why? I must admit I see a certain charm in this difference. It is a refreshing change to the diffidence which marks the youth of Sydney. Sure, we are aspiring musos/poets/journalists/artists and curators, but this drive is hidden from public view. We are too cool to try. A public statement of dreams is a precursor to failure, as lets face it- self awareness is unattractive to us.
And whilst I’ve settled back into my state of nonchalance, I could certainly envision a stint over in LA. I could feel quite at home residing in Silver Lake, catching the latest up and comers trying their trade in the dive bars, or living just a hop skip and jump away in Venice Beach, hanging with the tattoo artists and perpetual stoners, enjoying a beer watching that iconic sunset over Santa Monica.
But first I have to find a dream to chase…
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