Goodnight Hollywood (part 4)

Posted on 04. May, 2008 by Kerry Banks in Writing from the road

We have one more day in the City of Angels, just enough time to do some leisurely sightseeing. Mid-morning finds us in a taxi heading to the Farmers Market. We roll down busy Wilshire Boulevard and past the imposing, black-glassed Flynt Tower. On the sidewalk outside the highrise is a massive, six-ton statue of John Wayne sitting astride a horse. The statue was originally commissioned by Great Western Savings and Loan, for whom the Duke once did commercials. But the property was later sold to Hustler publisher Larry Flynt, who has no link to Wayne. Newport Beach, where the Duke made his home, has expressed interest in acquiring the memorial, which pleases Flynt, who would prefer to see the statue gone. He believes the entrance to his porn headquarters would be better served by something in keeping with the image of his business. Flynt’s idea is to install a 50-foot statue of an erect penis. Beverly Hills officials have offered no comment on his neighbourhood beautification proposal.

Many cities are defined by their famous landmarks (New York has the Empire State Building, Paris has the Eiffel Tower, Rome has the Coliseum), but Los Angeles’s most enduring icon is not a building, but a tree–the picturesque palm. As David Davin wrote in a 2006 article in Los Angeles CityBeat: “The palm tree signifies lots of things that Los Angeles likes about itself. They’re exotic, tropical, born of the desert, somehow at once a symbol of sun-baked survival and do-nothing opulence.” And true to the Tinseltown theme, they’re also not native to the area. The first palms were brought in by Spanish missionaries in 1769. Many more seedlings from the Middle East were planted in the early 1900s, and thousands more were planted in preparation for the 1932 Olympics. Of the estimated 75,000 palm trees in Los Angeles today, most are tall Mexican fan palms. Normally they grow to 40 to 60 feet, but in L.A., for reasons unknown, they reach an incredible 150 feet. This great height represents a long life span, but the trees are not immortal. They’re steadily vanishing from the landscape, the victims of age, disease and rising costs. To save money, civic officials are now replacing them with cheaper and shadier species: oaks, sycamores and jacarandas.

The Farmers Market proves to be a refreshing departure from the glitz and glamour that pervades so much of the city. This quaint market traces its origins back to 1934, when farmers began selling fresh produce from their back of their trucks on the site, which was then a derelict lot. Some of the stores here still sell fresh produce, but they are far outnumbered by the food stalls, over 30 in all, which offer a virtual round-the-world culinary road trip. I chow down on a blackened po’ boy Cajun catfish sandwich, while sitting in the balmy sunshine watching the passing parade.

From the market we walk to the city’s Craft and Folk Art Museum, where my wife makes several purchases in the museum’s funky and eclectic gift shop. From here, we proceed west down Wilshire and its luxury car showrooms, plastic surgery clinics and the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, whose facade is instantly recognisable from the film Pretty Woman. The top-end suites here go for a cool $8,000 a night.

Out of curiosity sake we stroll through Rodeo Drive, a three-block collection of shops and boutiques that are primarily known for being very expensive. In fact, the House of Bijan, at 420 Rodeo Drive, is said to be the single most expensive store in the world. Appointments have to be made to shop here and items range from $50 socks to $50,000 suits. Considering the concentration of wealth, it’s hard to believe that in the early 1950s the centre divide on the street was actually a horse path—hence the street’s name.

We conclude the day by dining at Da Vinci’s, an Italian restaurant on Santa Monica Boulevard, where the décor, music and ambience are right of the 1960s Rat-Pack era. The iconic eatery has hosted a number of Hollywood legends including Barbara Streisand, Sean Connery, Frank Sinatra and its most loyal customer, Dean Martin. During the 1980s, Martin dined here almost every night, always at table 9, which is now known as the “Dean Martin Booth.”

When we arrive back at the Beverly Hilton, preparations are underway for another convention. This one is for Guess, the trend-setting California-based apparel company that is known for its sexualized advertising campaigns featuring black-and-white photographs of fashion models and actresses such as Claudia Schiffer, Anna Nicole Smith and Paris Hilton. Several posters in the hotel’s lobby depict what appears to be a young Sophia Loren. The model is actually a stunning Swede named Line Gost, and she was photographed by Canadian rocker Bryan Adams for the Guess spring 2008 campaign.

Guess banner are plastered everywhere, each one emblazoned with the company’s totalitarian fashion statement: “One world. One brand.” As I stand gazing at the buzz of activity, it becomes apparent that the convention has attracted more than simply Guess employees–there are also several hookers prowling the premises. One of them tries to pick me up. She’s a dead ringer for Anna Nicole Smith.

It’s time to say goodnight to Hollywood.