Spotlight On: Santa Monica

I know…I KNOW! It’s been a little while since my last post. I’m sorry, but what with all the script-reading, coverage, and other riff raff, I haven’t been able to get a moment to myself, or rather, myself and my laptop. But hey, this gives me an opportunity to start fresh (and I have a sense I’ll be repeating that statement more often as I’ll be getting busier in the coming months).

Nonetheless, I thought I’d take some time to write about one of my favorite places in the Los Angeles area: Santa Monica.

Photo Credit: www.legendsofamerica.com

SaMo, as the locals call it, can be described simply as one of the strangest places in all of Los Angeles. It is where the idealism of the California lifestyle is truly achieved and sadly, reaches its end. As I wander up and down the Third Street Promenade, I cannot help but think about what this neighborhood looked like before it was taken over by the Gaps, Hollisters, and Apple Stores. Now, what was once unique and interesting has become a tourist hot-spot. While the restaurants and bars may reflect a more independent mentality, the prices do not. Expect to spend a pretty penny when visiting SaMo, if you stick to the well-lit areas that is.

Which brings up the fact that Santa Monica is not the epitomy of perfection. It has its dark places. It has its secrets. Beneath the mask of perfect weather and endless beaches can be found desperation and sadness. In this way, Santa Monica is different from the rest of Los Angeles, and the rest of California for that matter. All around the country, around the world even, lie those who seek escape from the ruins of their everyday lives. And where do they run to? Where do they find solace? California. Countless movies have told the tale of a group of friends journeying to the Western coast, the land of a thousand sunsets. But what happens in the end? In the case of a film like the Britney Spears tragedy, Crossroads, or a television show like Going to California; nothing. Nothing happens in the end. There’s the necessary trip to the ocean, a walk amongst the cool waves, and then it’s time to go home. Maybe it’s the fault of the films themselves, fantasizing the idea of such an excursion, but regardless, every year, California sees the newcomers arrive in droves. When they get here, the only natural thing to do is continue West, at which point they reach Santa Monica.

While the end of the line might not be so bad for those who are well-off, Santa Monica has become a pergutory for the vagrants, the homeless, and the mentally handicapped. They wander through the streets. They wander around the fancy cafes, the trendy restaurants, the Gap. They lie on the cool grass under the palm trees, shut their eyes, and soak in the California sun, taking in the warmth of the day so they may endure the night. They sit in alleys, in crevices, in alcoves, playing a drum, a banjo, a guitar, or whatever it was that allowed them to survive the journey.

Photo Credit: http://moneydick.com

While I sit and contemplate their strife, I must admit that I know nothing of the troubles of a California vagrant. When I see them all over the street, my first instinct is to offer food or money, but maybe I’m the one at fault. Maybe I’m the one that has mistaken a man that is homeless for a man that is poor. Perhaps my years growing up in other cities has led me to judge to quickly. It is often my impression that a man of the street is one that desires food, shelter, warmth, and a better life. But while I can recognize someone that is homeless or broke, I am unfamiliar with the vagrants, the hippies, the loners, and the stoners that occupy this part of town. I do not understand that mentality or that lifestyle. For all I know, the vagrant could be more free than I.

~ by ranjit13 on October 9, 2008.