I took a stroll along the promenade at Santa Monica beach this evening. The sun was setting, the view out across the beach and ocean was vast and majestic, so the moment clearly called for big thoughts. I set off, hands clasped behind me and a far-off expression on my face.
A small boy was in my path in a flood of tears. He had dropped his ice cream, and seemed unable to believe that life could be so cruel. His weary parents tried to coax him on towards the parking lot, with promises of sumptuous treats at home, far better than any ice cream. Misery rooted him to the spot, so I stepped gently around.
A shirtless roller-blader glided past me on one side, a cyclist wobbling about on a hired bike almost ran into me on the other. I passed a sort of outdoor gymnasium, with people swinging on rings and doing handstands on parallel bars. There was a lot of flexing, and sideways glancing towards onlookers.
I reached the pier, picking through the crowds heading for the roller-coasters and candy floss. The pier is like any other really - hot dog stands, sauntering couples, games involving teddy bear prizes. But against a backdrop of palm trees and Pacific Ocean, overlooked by the Santa Monica Mountains and Malibu along the coast, to an Englishman it all feels a bit more glamorous than Brighton or Blackpool.
I have to turn back and re-trace my route, through the crowds and past the gymnastics, stepping over the melting ice cream and back to where I started. Santa Monica may not be the place for profound thoughts, I realize, but it has a unique quality, somehow tranquil and chaotic at the same time. I am sure I will keep going back - it feels like an important part of LA lives there.
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