The only thing that still glitters here is the sea. The gloss has long since faded at Venice Beach. And yet the tourists keep coming — to see and be seen.
Elvis is flagging, but he manages a couple more numbers. He chortles slightly as he sings, but it’s the music that counts. It’s Showtime. A small crowd of snap-happy tourists is assembled around him. Mingling among them are a couple of his friends, who have yet to change into their own disguises. The sky above is blue and if you listen carefully, you can just hear the waves of the Pacific breaking in the distance. Elvis casts a brief look around, adjusts his old Marshall amp to full gain, and launches into an adroit hip-swivel from left to right. His quiff jiggles in time to Jailhouse Rock. The sun shimmers from the rhinestones on his once-white, rather tightly-fitting jumpsuit. Elvis isn’t entirely sure of his lines and occasionally his timing is off, but he continues, laughingly. The Venice sidewalk is Elvis’s own stage.
A pilgrimage to the famous Venice Beach is high on the list for many visitors to California. The area’s name is no coincidence: it was inspired by the many canals leading down to the beach, originally created to make the area habitable. But the relative calm of the canal district is of little interest to most tourists. The majority head straight for the beach, where it glitters. And where it’s all about one thing: seeing and being seen.
On this Sunday morning, the boardwalk seems especially crowded. Elvis’ music is slowly drowned out by the thumping bass from Muscle Beach. Pumped-up muscle-men lift weights and heave themselves up on rusty steel pipes or lift their own weight. At the fringes, an audience is beginning to gather — mostly curious tourists — but the bodybuilders pay little heed to the crowds around them.
The smell of deep-fat fryers hangs in the hair, mingling with the unmistakable scent of marijuana and stale alcohol. Buildings with colorful facades line the boardwalk facing Muscle Beach. Keen young Americans stand in the entrances wearing boldly printed T-shirts. “Medical Marijuana here” reads the slogan on their chests. Since the US State of California legalized marijuana, the herb has become a ubiquitous presence on almost every street corner in greater Los Angeles.
The crowds in Venice are a mixed bunch. There are those, armed with their iPhones, on the look-out for the ultimate, most Instagrammable shot. There are others, who are trying to ride their bikes from Venice to nearby Santa Monica, and then there are those for whom the American Dream has long since shattered. Opposite the colorful facades, they can be seen resting on the floor, dozing on the lawns, propped up behind street stalls or slumped under benches. Some attempt to sell art. Many seem lost, forgotten, and frozen in time.
One wears an enormous pink cloak, another is entirely consumed by his joint. Beside him, an elderly man with a trailing beard is grasping his whiskey bottle tightly to his chest. Selling? They haven’t bothered with that for a long time. Barely any tourists pause for longer than a moment. Whether it’s the lingering stench or the crude banter exchanged between the booths, something discourages the tourists from stopping here. Beyond them, the sea still twinkles in the distance, but it seems to play little more than a sad, walk-on role in this part of the beach.
Suddenly there are cheers. A cluster of onlookers gathers between the promenade and the beach to watch skateboarders as they practice their tricks in the Venice skate park.
Skateboarders are as much a part of Venice Beach as the bodybuilders. Today it’s a tiny girl who steals the show. Fearlessly, she slings herself into the halfpipe, again and again, performing tricks. The crowds applaud, phones at the ready, waiting to capture the perfect shot of the girl in the air, her hand beneath the board and the tall palms beyond. In the meantime, the older skaters just go through their paces. Many are clearly veterans. They seem to know every angle, every curve. The flocks of tourists standing all around are a matter of supreme indifference to them.
Again, there is movement on the Boardwalk. Filming is taking place — as it does almost every day on this famous beach. Away from the market stalls, beyond the bodybuilders and the skate-park, a film crew is busy. Oiled-up, scantily-clad women prepare a well-rehearsed routine on the Beach Volleyball court, while a crowd of extras applauds on cue. A real Hollywood shoot. Barely anyone is interested. It’s just another part of Venice Beach.
Once this night camp is established, the gym equipment falls silent. The last flips are turned in the skate-park. And Elvis packs away his case and wanders off into the balmy summer’s evening. His tent is waiting for him.
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