Los Angeles and Highway 101

I'm not exactly sure why but the closer Los Angeles dawned the less enamoured I became with the prospect of visiting. This was somewhat strange because it was here they manufactured so many idylls of the land of the opportunity and packaged it so enticingly to my generation and others before it.
Perhaps all of the cities negative connotations had seeped over time into my conscious and turned me against the place.
The smog didn't exactly promote it any differently to what I'd feared. Thick clouds of fumes lingered over the non-descript sprawl and multi-lane highways, creating a hot muggy atmosphere without a hint of that California sunshine.
Probably influenced by the toxic gasses, I began to hold out the hope that Hollywood, my home for the tenure, would part the ways from this despair and showcase the kind of dream factory I had idealised for so long. It didn't.
Hollywood immediately looked like the last place a movie star would live. It was stocked with tourists but I could never really understand what the lure was.
Surely not for the 'Guinness world records museum' or the 'Ripley's believe it or not' attraction, stuffed in among the stale air of mercenary salesmen just like every other American destination which has the slightest hint of tourist appeal.
It was fun to see the Hollywood walk of fame although its surprising state of disrepair appeared symbolic of the district's faded glory.

Some say Hollywood is in the midst of a renaissance. I'm surprised it ever got to the stage were it would need one. It's had the kind of opportunities to that thrive that most towns would crave and what's left appears to be an ugly mix of tourist traps, pretentious restaurants and an abundance of shops selling bondage gear.
Munching through a dodo egg in my studded leather dungarees I longed for a different California.

With a couple of unimpressive days behind me, shattered spirits were boosted with the arrival of my girlfriend. We were to spend a fortnight in the state together, meandering along the central Pacific coast to reach San Francisco.
Suddenly, when shared with a familiar face, LA's apparent burdens seemed trivial, even jovial. Lifted from my self-absorbed bubble, I developed a new found appreciation of what the city had to offer.
The sight of the Pacific Ocean at the vibrant Venice and Santa Monica beaches did much to vanquish the previous malaise and a tour of Universal Studio's helped fulfill my child like enthusiasm for a vintage Hollywood that was easier on the eye. I hit the road satisfied I had made peace with Lalaland and for all the interesting people I had met along the way it took the company of a loved one to spark that.
Upon hiring a car, escaping the LA traffic proved a needless fret. We made a direct turn off Hollywood Boulevard in our newly aquired Ford Focus, took a last glimpse at the Hollywood hills and descended onto Highway 101, the major artery of the west coast.

The drive, certainly the most stunning I have ever undertaken, at times gave such a brush with nature that it was like straddling the edge of the earth. The entire week beside the central coast satisfied my rumination as to why people would fork out so much to live in California.
The boardwalk and beaches of Santa Barbara, a city of luxuries beyond the means of a couple of budget travelers, made for a pleasant afternoon rounded off by 'New England style' fish and chips that would have stood up to serious scrutiny at home.
There were sightings of flocks of pelicans navigating their way just proud of the water surface and a mysterious chilling mist that could shroud the entire seafront.
Both would make habitual showings over the course of the week.
Detouring inland, we took State Route 55 on our way to San Luis Obispo. Despite lacking in a coastal outlook, the significantly smaller road also known as the Costa Messa Freeway, harboured yet more impressive driver distractions as it meekly bent around a series of looming cliffs.
Later, a helicopter commissioned for fire fighting appeared from the mountains armed with water to quell the raging fury further north. This was more 'big screen' than Hollywood ever was.
Rooted in California wine country, San Luis was like the antidote to Los Angeles. It was accommodating, attractive and clean - almost eerily so LA natives would argue.
From there we toured the vineyards and the beaches of Pismo and Avila. Such leisurely pursuits were a world apart from grappling with backpacks and Greyhound staff.
Caused by the cooling of salty air particles from the crashing waves, the mischievous mist (or fog depending on its density) gave Pismo the appearance and climate of Blackpool in February. Undeterred, we drove but 10 minutes away, to find Avila lit up by a baking sun that was quick to melt my holiday sized ice cream.
This unexpected pattern continued up the coast.
The sun cleared a view of the striking Cambria resort, a pristine town of galleries and nik naks, but neighbouring San Simeon, seemingly made up of a row of motels, was clouded so thick you could barely see 50 yards ahead, not to mention the grand ocean on which it stood.
The golden state didn't always live up to its name.