I should have heeded the warnings. I should have listened to my friends and everyone else I know who's been. But I didn't, and so was left feeling decidedly let down by Los Angeles. Let me prefix the series of photos and off-hand remarks you're about to see with the qualification that, although Los Angeles looks quite nice (at least when rendered in a digital photograph) and there are a few famous sights to see, there really isn't that much to it, and what is there really isn't that pleasant. 
We arrived in Hollywood and, with only 48 hours to spare, set about sight-seeing in earnest. What you think of when you think Hollywood will probably consist mostly of its eponymous Boulevard, home to the Walk of Fame (where you can literally stomp all over famous names of stage and screen from Orson Welles to Tom Hanks, and scores more that you've almost certainly never heard of) as well as compare the size of George Clooney's hands to your own outside Mann's (formerly Graumann's) Chinese Theater.
The tour of this famous, prestigous and, most-importantly, beautiful old cinema was a treat. Being permitted to a few minutes of the latest Wachowski Brothers film, Speed Racer, was not.
That word, 'tourists'. It seems to connote all manner of low-brow pleasures and uncool behaviour. I embrace such things. Following our theatrical tours, my girlfriend and I did one of the most 'touristy' things imaginable and went on a trip around the star's homes. I feel compelled to qualify this with the fact that it had been recommended to us as surprisingly entertaining, but to be honest I would probably have done it anyway. Our tour guide-cum-driver was Ghanaian-born Tutu (apologies for the spelling). His idiosyncratic manner, sense of humour and commendable knowledge of exactly who lives where (barring any opportunistic charlatanism on his part) made our day, and occasionally had us in stitches. What's more, we struggled to think of a better way of spending a beautiful, sunny Californian afternoon than being chauffeur-driven around some of the world's most beautiful residential suburbs, where the fire hydrants are platinum and the roads constructed without pavements to discourage anyone from taking a stroll too close to the homes of the rich and famous. 
I took many photos of the houses, most of which mean nothing after event, but the best one I took was of possibly my favourite house - harking back to my childhood, the house in the exterior shots from Will Smith's big television break 'The Fresh Price of Bel-Air'. 
The tour also gave us some spectacular views of LA (and for a city that isn't exactly aesthetically laid-out or particularly easy on the eye, that's no small feat): in particular of the Hollywood Bowl and - the real reason anyone comes, if they're honest - the Hollywood sign. 
But that's not all. Arguably, we topped our touristy escapades of the day by embarking on a boozy tour of Hollywood by night. In a limo. A big, white, stretch 4x4 limo. Shameless. I haven't included any 'party' photos because there's really nothing flattering about the sight of a bunch of pissed-up Brits, Aussies and Kiwis swigging lukewarm 'champagne' and body-popping to over-loud hip in a moving motor vehicle. But it is bloody good fun. Worthy of inclusion are some shots of the fountains at The Grove shopping district, the first stop on our tour - small beer in comparison to the Bellagio's in Las Vegas (see previous post below) but attractive nonetheless. What’s more, the whole area seemed like an extremely good place to test the breaking point of your credit card away from the staggering designer label prices of Rodeo Drive.
We left Hollywood before the novelty wore off and travelled west to Venice Beach. From everything I'd heard it was to be a cavalcade of freak-show performers, buskers and tanned, rollerblading LA lovelies. When we arrived it appeared they had left town for a relaxing mountain retreat or some other such distrction because the only entertainment on offer was random homeless people sleeping on the beach and the odd street performer who hadn't paid their union membership (and thereby forfeiting their invitation to the retreat?) Albert Kinney Blvd has a fantastic array of shops, art galleries and restaurants, but as with Hollywood we were found wanting with the area as a whole. Up the coast, in the decidedly ritzier Santa Monica, a more pleasant atmosphere abounds. Under the pier, we witnessed the shooting of a scene of 'I Love You, Man' the next film from Jason Segel (writer and star of 'Forgetting Sarah Marshall'). It was fascinating to see movie-making in action, but I was not in the least bit envious of the actors or any of the crew due to the incredibly stop-start nature of the whole business.
On our last day before departing for San Diego, we spent a day in downtown Los Angeles (I was relieved when I consulted the map and realised that we were still some miles north of Compton, evading any threat of drive-by). At the top of City Hall, expansive views were available, not least of the Frank Gehry masterpiece, the Walt Disney Concert Hall.
In the final analysis, Los Angeles is not a place to visit very often, or for very long. It isn't without merit - in fact, like Athens and a number of the world's other big tourist cities, there are a relatively small number of unmissable attractions, which collectively mean you sort of have to see the place. "Go there, see it, then go somewhere a lot nicer" would be an appropriate, if not too catchy, maxim for the City of Angels.
We arrived in Hollywood and, with only 48 hours to spare, set about sight-seeing in earnest. What you think of when you think Hollywood will probably consist mostly of its eponymous Boulevard, home to the Walk of Fame (where you can literally stomp all over famous names of stage and screen from Orson Welles to Tom Hanks, and scores more that you've almost certainly never heard of) as well as compare the size of George Clooney's hands to your own outside Mann's (formerly Graumann's) Chinese Theater. The tour of this famous, prestigous and, most-importantly, beautiful old cinema was a treat. Being permitted to a few minutes of the latest Wachowski Brothers film, Speed Racer, was not. Just the other side of the Hollywood & Highland Mall is the Kodak Theater - since 2002 home to the biggest night in the movie business: The Oscars. Completely in contrast to it's Orient-inspired counterpart, the Kodak is extremely modern but is nonetheless imbued with a historical sensibility. The walls of the public areas are adorned with blown-up photographs capturing memorable moments of Oscar ceremonies past and present and large sections of the lobby are adorned with the similar kind of fabric out of which the early 'silver' movie screens were made. Unfortunately, photography was not permitted inside and our tour guide was so informative and charming I didn't feel any compulsion to incur his disappointment in one of his charges by sneaking any cheeky piccies (and he did rather thoughtfully give us all a photo postcard of the view from the stage, looking out upon the gorgeous auditorium). While on that subject, we were also told that we were extremely lucky to be standing on the famous stage, home to all those cringe-worthy acceptance speeches and questionable wardrobe selections. In 2010, Cirque de Soleil will begin a ten year run at the theatre, making way only for the Oscar season, and thus rendering the stage off-limits to all tourists.
That word, 'tourists'. It seems to connote all manner of low-brow pleasures and uncool behaviour. I embrace such things. Following our theatrical tours, my girlfriend and I did one of the most 'touristy' things imaginable and went on a trip around the star's homes. I feel compelled to qualify this with the fact that it had been recommended to us as surprisingly entertaining, but to be honest I would probably have done it anyway. Our tour guide-cum-driver was Ghanaian-born Tutu (apologies for the spelling). His idiosyncratic manner, sense of humour and commendable knowledge of exactly who lives where (barring any opportunistic charlatanism on his part) made our day, and occasionally had us in stitches. What's more, we struggled to think of a better way of spending a beautiful, sunny Californian afternoon than being chauffeur-driven around some of the world's most beautiful residential suburbs, where the fire hydrants are platinum and the roads constructed without pavements to discourage anyone from taking a stroll too close to the homes of the rich and famous. I took many photos of the houses, most of which mean nothing after event, but the best one I took was of possibly my favourite house - harking back to my childhood, the house in the exterior shots from Will Smith's big television break 'The Fresh Price of Bel-Air'. The tour also gave us some spectacular views of LA (and for a city that isn't exactly aesthetically laid-out or particularly easy on the eye, that's no small feat): in particular of the Hollywood Bowl and - the real reason anyone comes, if they're honest - the Hollywood sign. But that's not all. Arguably, we topped our touristy escapades of the day by embarking on a boozy tour of Hollywood by night. In a limo. A big, white, stretch 4x4 limo. Shameless. I haven't included any 'party' photos because there's really nothing flattering about the sight of a bunch of pissed-up Brits, Aussies and Kiwis swigging lukewarm 'champagne' and body-popping to over-loud hip in a moving motor vehicle. But it is bloody good fun. Worthy of inclusion are some shots of the fountains at The Grove shopping district, the first stop on our tour - small beer in comparison to the Bellagio's in Las Vegas (see previous post below) but attractive nonetheless. What’s more, the whole area seemed like an extremely good place to test the breaking point of your credit card away from the staggering designer label prices of Rodeo Drive. We left Hollywood before the novelty wore off and travelled west to Venice Beach. From everything I'd heard it was to be a cavalcade of freak-show performers, buskers and tanned, rollerblading LA lovelies. When we arrived it appeared they had left town for a relaxing mountain retreat or some other such distrction because the only entertainment on offer was random homeless people sleeping on the beach and the odd street performer who hadn't paid their union membership (and thereby forfeiting their invitation to the retreat?) Albert Kinney Blvd has a fantastic array of shops, art galleries and restaurants, but as with Hollywood we were found wanting with the area as a whole. Up the coast, in the decidedly ritzier Santa Monica, a more pleasant atmosphere abounds. Under the pier, we witnessed the shooting of a scene of 'I Love You, Man' the next film from Jason Segel (writer and star of 'Forgetting Sarah Marshall'). It was fascinating to see movie-making in action, but I was not in the least bit envious of the actors or any of the crew due to the incredibly stop-start nature of the whole business.On our last day before departing for San Diego, we spent a day in downtown Los Angeles (I was relieved when I consulted the map and realised that we were still some miles north of Compton, evading any threat of drive-by). At the top of City Hall, expansive views were available, not least of the Frank Gehry masterpiece, the Walt Disney Concert Hall.In the final analysis, Los Angeles is not a place to visit very often, or for very long. It isn't without merit - in fact, like Athens and a number of the world's other big tourist cities, there are a relatively small number of unmissable attractions, which collectively mean you sort of have to see the place. "Go there, see it, then go somewhere a lot nicer" would be an appropriate, if not too catchy, maxim for the City of Angels. 
For all the retail therapy and nightlife options on offer on State St (and it really is buzzing of an evening, even during midweek) the main draw of Santa Barbara is the beach, 3 or so miles of superfine white sand, encircled by beautiful soaring palm trees, all of which is set against the stunning, perennially mist-shrouded Coast Range mountains, looming almost watchfully in the background.
A real highlight was the 'Wheels and Waves' festivals one afternoon, a showcase of automobile classics dating from the 1920s to the present day along State St. Below are a few favourites, including an extremely pimping, felt-lined Cadillac and a gorgeous Ford Mustang.
A classy, quietly affluent seaside town, Santa Barbara's architecture hints at times past but the town is undeniably modern and young in character. Its picturesque State St has everything you could want by day as well as by night, and the overt yelp of wealth and glamour (which is Las Vegas' trademark) is conspicuously absent - in this sense it was our perfect antidote. Without question an excellent holiday destination: charming, fun, relaxing and invigorating all at once, Santa Barbara is undoubtedly an absolute gem on this most beautiful stretch of the Californian coastline.
By daylight, the city’s all-singing, all-dancing temples to vice change significantly. Some appear vaguely classy, elegantly structures. Others, stripped of their neon glitz, appear a little dated, tired, even grubby. The southern part of the strip (where all these photos were taken) is the newer section, most of which is second-generation Vegas. The odd pockets of outmoded, smaller-scale gaming hint at what lies a few miles north, past the Sahara and the Stratosphere, in the older and decidedly seedier Downtown (despite an attempt at reviving the area’s flagging fortunes in the shape of the electricity-guzzling Fremont Street Experience). This is where Vegas began, and to my mind there’s no doubt that its future lies to the south. The Trump Tower, suitably resplendent and gold, is situated on the edge of an enormous empty lot, soon to spark alive with construction and development. Slap-bang in the middle of the strip itself there are one or two huge new buildings already taking shape, their gargantuan steel skeletons already in place, hinting at the next stage in Vegas’ continual evolution.
Inside the hotels, casinos and their seemingly obligatory parade of high-end shops and boutiques, just as much attention to presentation is evident as on their outsides and, true to form, their attempts to out-do one another is all to the benefit of the camera-happy tourist (like yours truly).
Call me easily pleased but one of my highlights was the fountains outside the Bellagio. At regular intervals their aquatic waltz conducted itself in time to music, from old swing tunes to opera. See them in the day and at night for the full effect. And the best part – they won’t cost you a dime.
In contrast to its high-rolling, life savings-blowing image, Vegas is often touted as a blagger’s paradise by those supposedly ‘in the know’. In truth, in Vegas the term ‘free’ is highly conditionally, probably best expressed as being shorthand for ‘only if you’ve spent some serious coin first’. Sure you can get free drinks in most casinos – but only if you’re gambling, and this usually involves some significant outlay. In truth, the scantily-clad waitresses hold the cards (pardon the pun) as there aren’t nearly enough of them to come round and serve you more than a couple of beverages before you run out of money. Certain renowned party bars found in the likes of the Treasure Island casino offer punters free shots and the like, but you just try sitting at one of their tables and not ordering a thing until the freebies arrive.