VideoTravelAlex

As the closing credits of “Rebel Without a Cause” rolled, the mighty Grand Canyon welcomed UA399 to the Great American Southwest.

The gorge’s vermillion majesty contrasted with the subsequent and seemingly infinite urban sprawl. 

We had arrived at the City of Angels. 

LAX made me feel overweight. I briefly considered walking instead of shuttling the 1.5-mile distance from the airport terminal to the rider app pick-up spot.

Or I’d do as the Romans do and start a cycle of Ozempic.

My Uber (a red Tesla, the most LA thing ever) canceled on me. Too bad, as I was looking forward to informally interviewing my driver, Irina, who was probably an aspiring Russian actress.

Finally, in West Hollywood, The London Hotel cosplayed as the English capital with life-sized statues of bulldogs and photos of white-gloved butlers.

A hint of a stale odor, vaguely reminiscent of a Paddington guest house, welcomed me to my room.

“Wow, they’re good,” I thought, opening the windows and letting the Sunset Boulevard air in to extinguish the faux Old World vibe.

The West Coast jet-lagged disoriented me. I napped and dreamt I was in Marylebone instead of Beverly Hills. 

Hunger woke me up a couple of hours later. Like a weirdo, I decided to stroll in Car City.

Time and space flow differently in this town. A third of a mile feels twice or three times longer, a sensation accentuated by the uncanny lack of fellow pedestrians.

I spotted a Subway. The sandwich artist asked if I wanted bread with my turkey and Swiss. 

I ate my late lunch on the sidewalk. Passing motorcycles roared. A nearby tattoo parlor blasted Jack Harlow’s “First Class.”

Across the Sunset Strip, Book Soup stood like a cultural oasis among gas stations and liquor stores. 

After the world’s longest-lasting traffic light, I crossed over and dove between Marlon Brando biographies and Pedro Almodovar anthologies.

Perhaps flattered by my comment that her establishment would give New York City’s Strand and London’s Daunt Books a run for their money, Rita—the bookseller—befriended me.

She acquainted me with my first ghost of Sunset Boulevard. “River Phoenix OD’d on Halloween Night 1993 next door,” she said, pointing to The Viper Room.

Later that day, I passed the occasional elderly jogger on my way to The Beverly Hills Hotel.

The iconic “home away from home” of the rich and famous opened in the 1910s, even before the city’s foundation.

Charles Chaplin and Gloria Swanson lived nearby. Harold Lloyd, another star from the silent film era, was one of its first patrons.

I pictured them having inaudible dialogues and unsynchronized interactions by the swimming pool and the Polo Lounge.

I went to Santa Monica Boulevard for tacos and beer that evening. Harvey Milk saluted me at The Abbey.”Hope will never be silent,” he reminded me. 

The following day, I returned to Rita’s domain. She met me at the entrance and pointed to the nearby Whisky a Go Go.

“Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin started there.”

She said Whisky was also the birthplace of Go Go Dancers. In the 1960s, promoters suspended white mini-skirts and long boots-clad ladies in cages from the ceiling.

Below Van Halen, the Ramones, Blondie, and many more led the following two decades’ most significant musical movements.

This snobby New Yorker realized that Los Angeles indeed had culture. And, like everything else in this town, it runs on film and cars.

Enter the Petersen Automotive Museum and the history of Porsche through the iconic celebrities—from Steve McQueen to Slash—who loved the German car and helped popularize it in America. 

“The Cars of Film and Television” exhibition shows Marty McFly’s DeLoreanDNC in “Back to the Future,” “Starsky & Hutch’s” Ford Gran Torino, and the 20-foot-long Chevrolet Impala Batmobile.

History comes alive in the museum’s Vault with 250 rare cars, including FDR’s WWII limousine and John Paul II’s Popemobile, among many more presidential vehicles from diverse countries and eras.

Across the street, the Academy Museum of Motion Pictures tells the film industry’s history from the 1920s on through more than 13 million objects, such as costumes, posters, and screenplays.

Priceless mementos include one of the sharks from “Jaws,” the horse head from “The Godfather II,” and the typewriter Joseph Stefano used to write the screenplay for Alfred Hitchcock’s “Psycho.”

“John Waters Pope of Trash,” the display about the Baltimore-born filmmaker of “Pink Flamingos,” “Hairspray,” and “Cry Baby,” was the cherry on top of the cinematographic cake.

We couldn’t leave the LA area without visiting our dear Venice Beach friends, a visual artist and a former television writer who recently picketed in the Writers Guild of America’s strike.

We heard about the guild’s negotiations over a lovely lunch in their front yard, which took us to the topic of Artificial Intelligence (AI) and the role it would play in content creation for generations to come.

I quoted a Columbia University expert on robotics, “In the end, we’ll win over robots, not because we’re smarter or more creative, but because they’ll run out of batteries.”

The optimistic take did little to assuage the dystopian mood. There is a precedent.

“Let’s not forget how the 1988 strike involuntarily helped popularize reality television,” said the writer, referring to the studios’ willingness to commission unscripted television in the early 2000s.

“We didn’t get here overnight, ‘Newlyweds: Nick and Jessica,’ and ‘Keeping Up with the Kardashians’ did their bit to deteriorate our social fabric,” said the artist.

“Heck, ‘The Apprentice’ even gave us a president!”

Luckily, when the sun set, we shifted to a different topic: classic Hollywood films.

“I think ‘Rebel Without a Cause’ is about a coded queer relationship between James Dean’s and Sal Mineo’s characters,” I fired.

“You’re watching too much ‘Heartstopper,'” said my partner, ever playing devil’s advocate.

As is usually the case, the conversation turned to the cast’s violent and untimely deaths.

Dean perished in a car accident a month before the film was released. His co-star, Bronx-born Mineo, was stabbed 21 years later in a West Hollywood parking lot.

I had an idea for a pilot: the ghosts of Dean and Mineo materialize in present-day West Hollywood, living and driving fast and, at last, enjoying their unfulfilled love.

Bicycles are to Danes what cars are to Americans.

But, while in the United States, automobiles signify status, in Denmark, bikes mean equality.

And that’s when Scandinavians feel freest.

Though Denmark introduced bicycles in the 1880s, it wasn’t until the 1920s-30s that they became widespread.

Danes from all walks of life began to ride shoulder to shoulder for commuting and recreation, and a national identity based on human-powered mobility was born.

The phenomenon coincided with the arrival of the Northern European social contract of a tax-funded, robust safety net.

Although in the 1950s, Danes flirted with automobiles like the rest of the industrialized world, a pivotal event—the 1970s Oil Embargo—provided a wake-up call.

The Danes had the vision to dust off their beloved two-wheelers and end their dependency on gas for good.

Today, you will see lawmakers on their way to parliament, families grocery shopping, and couples going on dinner dates on this healthy and convenient mode of transportation.

Nine in ten people own a bike in Denmark. And they ride .9 miles on average every day.

As a result, they request 1.1 million fewer sick days, help reduce CO2 emissions by 20 thousand tons a year, and save $1.16 million on health benefits per .6 miles traveled.

It’s a productive partnership between the citizens and their government. In 2022 alone, the Danish Ministry of Transportation invested $458 million in “cycle superhighways.”

With fewer stops, safer intersections, and resting areas equipped with air pumps, these cycle routes connect residential and commercial districts to public transportation networks.

Along with other incentives, like taxation on motor vehicles, these measures will help Denmark reach its goal of 50 percent of the population commuting on bicycles by the decade’s end.

No wonder Danes and Bikes is a life-long love affair.

Preschoolers attend “kiddy biking schools,” where they learn road safety from an early age. Similarly, the government funds programs for new immigrants and refugees so they can learn how to properly navigate the country’s more than 7 thousand miles of cycle routes.

The Danes even ride in the afterlife.

Funeral homes use cargo bikes to transport the deceased to their last resting place in a “final ride,” with mourners often following on their bikes.

It’s the most environmentally friendly burial procession.

All of which make bicycles part of the Scandinavian landscape as much as the understated, functional, and pastel-colored architecture or the elegant, green urban spaces.

Bikes are everywhere: tangled by the dozens in massive lots across town and parked (not locked) outside offices, schools, stores, restaurants, bars, and even churches.

But, mainly, they’re on the road.

For someone used to the chaos of American city cyclists—who generally ride against traffic, on sidewalks, and disregard traffic lights—witnessing the sheer number of compliant Danish bikers perfectly choreographed around proper regulation is fascinating.

As a driver, pedestrian, or fellow cyclist, disrupt this order at your own peril.

While among the world’s most polite people, Danes will lose their cool, to say the least, if you cut them or otherwise step on their path when you’re not supposed to.

They’ll probably even deport you from their country. And rightfully so!

All this social order doesn’t mean Scandinavians are dull or uptight—quite the opposite.

At Copenhagen Pride, a late-August city-wide, week-long celebration, Danes of all stripes dismount to join the street festivals, have a pint (or two) of beer, and dance with friends and strangers alike.

And you don’t even have to know how to speak Danish to partake.

Thanks to their top-notch educational system and exposure to American culture (in Denmark, movies and TV shows are subtitled, not dubbed), Danes speak Standard American English better than your average American.

Even when they haven’t set foot in the United States.

Like Oliver, the 20-something Copenhagen server who dreams about coming to New York City one day.

He learned British grammar in elementary school and American slang by watching reruns of “Friends.”

Growing up, Rachel was his crush, and Joey his role model (he also wants to be an actor).

He also thought Ross and Phoebe were the coolest.

Yes, Oliver, but imagine how much cooler they would’ve been had they ridden bicycles all over Manhattan.

Do the touristy things, they attract tourists for a reason

@jamestwall

“Don’t look down,” a terrified American mom said as the tin can shot up to the sky.

It was the cue for all the rest of us sardines to do just the opposite and watch the city below quickly shrink to a live-action LEGO scale.

Right on schedule, the Eiffel Tower wrapped us in her unmistakable golden gown and sparkly jewels.

She then placed us on her crown to witness the magnificent evening she was about to take on.

An Italian little girl exclaimed, “Mamma Mia!” A Chinese family scrambled to FaceTime the view. A group of Muslim teenagers giggled and took selfies.

The modern-day Babel fell under the spell of Paris in June.

We’d arrived that morning for 48 unapologetically touristy hours in the City of Light.

When we climbed to the Iron Lady’s top, we’d already taken the obligatory Notre Dame selfie, marveled at the perfectly-manicured Tuileries Garden, and window-shopped at Place Vendome. 

We also experienced Sainte Chapelle, the 13th-century stained glass collection site, which withstood the Revolution and World Wars I and II. 

This entire city is an ode to survival through beauty.

Like Arc de Triomphe, the imposing monument that dominates the elegant Champs Elysées and where veterans carrying red, white, and blue flags pay their daily respects to the Unknown Soldier.

The following morning we visited the Louvre Museum, another excellent example of this spirit.

In 1939, anticipating the fall of France to Nazi Germany, the home of “La Gioconda” scrambled for three days to uninstall, ship, and evacuate its precious collection to private chateaus in the provinces.  

Though we dreaded lining up outside at 8:30 AM while nursing a massive hangover, being among the first entering the museum made us feel like we had the entire place to ourselves.

Because of its commitment to aesthetics, Paris is probably the only place in the world that can get away with turning an old train station into a museum.

The Musée d’Orsay is one of those places where the beauty of the building rivals that of the artworks it houses, even when they include the world’s most extensive collection of Impressionist and post-Impressionist masterpieces.

Finished in time for the Exposition Universelle of 1900, the “Gare d’Orsay” was considered old-fashioned and unsuitable for modern trains.

After being downgraded for suburban services, and a stint as a mail center, filming location, and potential hotel, the Réseau Express Régional (RER) built a new station underneath.

In the late 1970s, France’s Ministry for Cultural Affairs listed the station as a Historic Monument, which saved it from demolition.

New York City’s old Penn Station left the chat.

With time running out, we headed for Palais Garnier, another place where people go to admire its grand facade, staircase, foyers, and pavilions as much as they go to enjoy the canonical ballets and operas it features.

The world’s most famous opera house owes its celebrity to an 1896 chandelier-related fatal incident, which inspired the iconic scene in Gaston Leroux’s 1910 “The Phantom of the Opera.”

The rest is history.

Like a Private Eye in London

Eurostar pulled in St. Pancras International a little before midnight.

If the French are all about joie de vivre, the English run on stoicism and beer.

Ask the Postal Museum, which reenacts how the Royal Mail kept intelligence flowing through relentless bombing to emerge victorious after WWII.

Like a private eye, you might head next to Tower Bridge. Its glass bottom makes you feel like you could jump and land on one of the boats crossing the River Thames below. 

Two miles away, The Eye keeps watching.

You hop on it and ponder your action plan while suspended in a transparent capsule at 443 feet with aerial views of Parliament Square. 

Your upcoming move may be to the Tower of London, where one of the Beefeaters might be an undercover agent.

Perhaps your answer lies beyond London, in the Queen’s tomb at Windsor Castle‘s St. George’s Chapel, or among Stonehenge‘s prehistoric stones. 

You may need to dig a little deeper into the historic town of Bath or among the nondescript, Medieval stone houses of the nearby village of Lacock.

Keep calm and carry on.