Venice beach, totally RAD

Friday 15th November

Since Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater 2 came out on the now-ancient PlayStation 1 (which came out 14 years ago, people—how old do you feel!!), I’ve always wanted to go to Venice Beach. More accurately, I’ve always wanted to skate Venice Beach. Unfortunately, years of overindulgence meant I would have to be happy with a walking visit.

I may be overweight, greying, and looking haggard before my years, but luckily (for me), I was a walking ray of sunshine compared to Ms. Birkett, whose manky, weeping foot was clearly now infected (so said the chirpy Hispanic doctor at the run-down neighborhood clinic we spent the first part of our day in).

As usual, Suzanne had the last laugh as I struggled to push her up curbs and down steps in her royal chariot—I mean, the wheelchair we borrowed from the hotel. The only solace I could now gain was the humiliation inflicted in leaving her, in all her elegance in the chair, while I took photos. In slight resemblance to the Sad Keanu photos that dominated the interweb a few years back, this would be a game that kept me entertained for longer than it should have—see Wheeling Las Vegas for more.

We hopped on our local bus and, still suffering from jet lag, fell unconscious throughout the rougher parts of LA, until some hours later (by this time, it was about 3:30 pm), we rolled—quite literally—into the end of Santa Monica Boulevard, in the direction of the pier.

This mammoth, iron- and wood-clad structure was mildly impressive. Huge ferris wheels scraped the cluster of clouds, while our eyes were set—unpeelable—on the tempestuous ocean in front, our first Atlantic view, and our first salty air for what seemed like a lifetime.

But we had things to do, places to be, and people to push in wheelchairs, so we grabbed a burger and a chocolate shake and headed south to Venice Beach.

After an age, and feeling like I could swap roles with Sisyphus, we edged to the outskirts, greeted by an ageing black hippie on roller skates, playing an electric guitar. The loonies were out, and they were plentiful.

The peace-and-love hippie vibe was slightly fainter than the smell of weed in the air as “doctors” in hoodies with huge cannabis leaf logos tried to entice us in with promises of a $20 consultation, presumably to see whether we qualified for medical marijuana—which, again, presumably, we would have done.

More interested in cheap sunglasses and flip-flops (btw, I’m still struggling to part with my £2.50 Sri Lankan footwear), we marched on—well, one of us did. The other one pointed to where she wanted to go with increasingly demanding tones.

We walked past the infamous muscle gyms, the ones you see in old hip-hop videos and Arnold Schwarzenegger bios. Huge pre- or post-jail birds were pumping iron, lifting heavy things, or generally exerting themselves for no particular reason. Except, like we found with most of Venice Beach, what was once a character-filled melting pot of edginess and extremes had been softened and sanitized. The chain fences, rusty weights, and convicts had been replaced by bright, shiny, fun gym equipment and laughing children.

The theme repeated itself again and again. Even when we spotted the skaters, they had been relocated a few hundred meters to a nice new skatepark. The 14-year-old skwarks illusion was finally shattered.

Was I disappointed with Venice Beach? No. It’s absolutely stunning. The sunset was on par with airbrushed Cali magazines, and I think nostalgia is pointless. But, if I’m honest, there was a twinge—more because these beautiful places where the rough and rugged is the heart and soul are becoming more and more infrequent as countries care more and more about tourism and marketing (I am aware of the irony and that I have a part to play).

Saying this, it was a super fun day, even with Little Miss Wheelie in tow.

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