Adventures of the Hollywood Posse

And I give you...Hollywood

They shut down the school on Friday for the holiday (hooray!), so with an entire extra day on my hands and a seemingly light load to study from earlier in the week, I decided to do the LA tourist thing. Colleague, fellow northwesterner and Serious Foodie Tanya agreed to accompany me.

Donning the largest sunglasses we own, our posse of two set out from the purple jacaranda tree-shaded city of Claremont after a quick stop for coffee, citrus scones and croissants at Some Crust bakery in the Village. You know when the line winds around the room inside the bakery that you're in for something good. Some Crust gets top marks for their citrus scone--light, fluffy, not too sweet and definitely not dry.

The Claremont Village (home to Some Crust) with the purple jacarandas in the distance and the San Gabriels looming behind.

PS, the roads around Claremont and throughout the greater LA area BLOW. I think I have some kind of steering issue. The Xterra gets beat to hell every time we venture onto the 10.

The first item on the agenda was to track down the Hollywood sign. Between the Frommer's guide and the Garmin, we found ourselves winding through precarious 1-lane canyon drives, negotiating our traverse with garbage trucks heading the opposite way. We were rewarded however, with adorable mid-century bungalows, and finally the highly sought-after vista:



Next came the Hollywood Walk of Fame, Grauman's Chinese Theatre and a mid-day Gimlet at the Roosevelt Hotel (they seemed oddly and apologetically unaware of how to make one). That area is a mob of tourism. Especially in the wake of Michael Jackson's demise. There were throngs of fans around his star, the news was doing live-shots, and they had cops trying to keep the sidewalks clear. I located a famous "relative"'s handprints, my man Tony H's star, and then made a brief sojourn into the ladies' room at the Roosevelt, where I was dismayed to find myself considerably less stylish in full relief than the ladies' room icon was in silhouette.

She fixed my fashion wagon.

Departing the Walk of Fame we opted to drive Sunset Blvd all the way to the coast. The drive proved interesting, as we saw both beautiful neighborhoods and vistas (i.e., Brentwood) as well as some truly brilliant signage.

It's open on Sundays for all your Trashy Lingerie needs!

We ended up at Santa Monica where we marveled at the warm sand (!), met a real-life surfer (!!) walked the boardwalk, and decided it was high time for a diet Dr. Pepper.

My shampoo-commercial at Santa Monica beach.

Our Garmin Gal, Jill, led us to an AM/PM a few blocks off the beach. We bee-lined for the fountain, passing a couple folks engaged in a boisterous conversation. While I tunnel-visioned my Diet Dr. Pepper, I heard a vaguely familiar voice ecstatically exclaiming, "Man, this shit is fucked UP, mothafucka," etc., etc. Tanya, who was paying far more attention than I, mentioned in a low voice, "I think that's Chris Rock." Still not looking, I said, "No that's not Chris Rock. Voice is wrong." A few minutes later, we figured out that it was Dave Chapelle, a fact confirmed by the cashiers, who had participated wholly in the "fucked up shit" conversation. So it would seem that my love for a cool, refreshing Diet Dr. Pepper cost me the only celebrity sighting of the day, in a place that we never expected to see a celebrity. Instead, I have this:

Forever and anon known as the Dave Chapelle AM/PM.

Finally, on our way back to Claremont, we stopped off at Rodeo in Beverly Hills, but the highlight of that segment was in the architecture of the Beverly Hills Civic Center, as all the shops were closed and there were no famous folk in sight.

Well met, Hollywood. Until next time.