My hubby and I stopped for Starbucks, then saw this bloke setting up shop. Not five minutes after several attempts to wrangle money out of drivers for his services, a cop pulled up and made him vacate the area.
I see this woman everywhere and always in the sun. She looks burnt and thirsty, but she never begs for money.
…and we’re finally here. Though the idea was to head to Malibu, the North side of the Santa Monica Pier provided several wide open spaces on which to set up camp and lay out. So we stopped here. Unlike the bohemoth parking lot located right next to the Pier and Venice Beach – allowing waves of tourists and large families to set up shop, bouncing past your towels with swaths of kicked up sand and shrieking laughter – smaller lots are available the further you drive towards Malibu, thus restricting the flow of beach-goers. So we choose the quiet.
My size 10 clunkers. Though I annually refuse to wear flip-flops because they always give me blisters, no matter how long or how often I wear them, I have yet to find an accceptable replacement and usually ruin a favored pair of chassures. Pain is beauty, right?
What I look like at the beach. My head covered in towels, hats or a book, I try to avoid burning my face for fear of leathery skin and more freckles than I can count. My pasty skin hardly ever bears a tahitian tan, but I try. My one crowning moment was after I received a spray tan in Miami. An old woman from Chile thought I was Brazilian.
The trouble with L.A., almost always a bad highway accident resulting in miles of irritated drivers.
A mile later…
Another mile…
And another…
My hubby and I caught sight of this pimp-mobile just blocks from our house and I had to take a photo. Though the car is obviously a bit rough around the edges, something like this only comes from love, and so seems endearingly named “Fig” for its purple hue.
NO SAINTS IN L.A. 