It’s beautifully, flamboyantly cliché. Ricky Martin has a house on one of the wide, green-canopied avenues. His music plays here more than is merited.
In which NYC and I do Round III.
And now I’m on a plane to New York. I have 60 hours in New York City: it feels like a challenge. I’ve never liked this city. However, I’m fairly certain that that’s my fault, not its.
It’s all I can do not to fall asleep in my Sam Adams, raw clams and marshmallows.
The London dark gnawed at me.
Date: 23 June Location: Santa Monica pier, munching on French fries and thinking I should really get that diet back on track. Notable sightings: a man in the corner of […]
Date: 22 June. Location: Casa Martin, Ocean Avenue, Santa Monica, the best little Mexican joint north of the border. Notable sightings: dolphins. “You know, I read somewhere that it is […]