This is the first in a series of literary meditations on that rare urban pastime of exploring Los Angeles on foot.

L.A. has a reputation as a driver’s city.  I know this, because I’ve read it described elsewhere, endlessly, in peoples’ reflections on the place; and also, because of my first experience of L.A., which came through an old girlfriend who once laughed in my face when I asked her if there were any cool bars or coffee shops within ‘walking distance’ of her house. There are certain things that contribute to L.A.’s demarcation in this regard. First of all, the place is huge; it’s an official “mega-city,” with the metropolitan area comprising almost 500 square miles and containing nearly 15 million souls. Whether you were born and raised in Watts or the OC, chances are that, when asked in polite conversation where you’re from, you’ll respond “L.A.” But who would be willing to hoof the distance between these two areas? Public transport is insufficient. As a new transplant, I’ve seen more shuttered subway stops than functioning ones, and the prospect of navigating a bus system in a place where single streets can stretch for 24 miles (Sunset Blvd.), or the famous highway system regularly suffers the daily glut of seven million cars, leaves me anxious and uninspired. Public transport, in order to be successful, has to be fast and easy. In L.A., it is neither of these, which leaves most residents with no option but to hop behind the wheel, and add their presence to the communal cluster of the 110, 5, 10, or 101.

In reality, L.A. is an imminently walkable city, at least within the neighborhood regions that comprise it. Los Angeles is a city, of course, and an immensely large one; but it is also a conglomerate of individual communities, many of which feel like autonomous regions and have much to offer the foot-bound voyager. So how do we find our feet in this great mecca of urban development? Easy. By putting our feet on the ground, and breaking the city down into the neighborhood elements that comprise its body and soul. There’s a lot of history here, and for such a vehicular city, a vibrant street culture, with food vendors, pedestrians, small storefronts, and a rich visual texture of beautiful buildings, graffiti, flora, and vistas to reward the urban spelunker. In this series of essays I will explore the practice of walking L.A., a project that I hope will endear me more to this strange place that inspires such intense reactions of love and hate. A secondary goal will be to root out the variegated strands of literary culture persistent here at the end of our continent. As Henry Miller stated, great literature is born of the streets; yet Los Angeles, the entertainment capital of the world, has never possessed in the popular imagination a literary heritage comparable to, say, New York. Of course, as with everything here, appearances are deceiving. The great writers of Los Angeles – Chandler, Fante, Bukowski – have all celebrated the city in microcosm, and to read their writings without an awareness of place is to miss half the point. Los Angeles is beautiful and complex, and bears the attention of prolonged study. This fact was made apparent to me continually in the course of my first walk, which centered around the city’s historic Pueblo center.

It was a fantastically beautiful day. This is not strange, noting the locale, but worth mention due to the effervescence the sunshine extracts from the clean white lines of the downtown architecture, interspersed with the oases of public gardens and parks. Los Angeles is a fascinating city architecturally. In the past few decades, attention has been drawn to the fabrication of monolithic wonders, like the Frank Gehry designed Disney Concert Hall. As a city of spectacle, though, L.A. has always been the sight of showy building accomplishment, from the stately halls of public administration to the boutique wonders of homes in the hills. At the center of it all is one of its true stone wonders: Union Station, a New Mission monolith built to much fanfare in 1930 that continues to provide the beginning and end to many West Coast experiences.

If Los Angeles is the Paris of the Americas (and why not?), then Union Station is its Gare Saint-Lazare. This beauteous terminal has been amply represented in cinema and literature, and can serve as a useful representation of the city it serves. Union Station would seem intimidating. After all, it is the downtown transportation hub that links a massive city to its equally massive airport, LAX. Union Station is also an Amtrak and bus terminal, with direct service up and down the West Coast, and east to Texas. It is not intimidating, however; neither its majestic mission facade, rising next to the similarly designed USPS Terminal Annex, nor its generous interior layout. I parked my motorcycle across the street (one must, of course, drive to walk here), entered through the front doors, and was immediately greeted with a splendor of space: a direct line, defined in polished oak and vaulted ceilings, from the curb, straight through the waiting area, to the terminals and bus station. To the left of the entryway, barred to foot-traffic but eminently viewable, is the old ticket-hall, a huge room with a mighty row of art-deco counters, polished marble floors, and paneled-wood ceilings. Its grandiosity and enforced barrenness inspired thoughts of tragic, sudden departures, a teary movie heroine in shades of celluloid buying the first ticket to nowhere, with everyone wearing hats and smoking cigarettes. Opposite this is a nice-looking bar (too early in the day for me to sample, but I’m sure a welcome retreat for weary travelers) and a breezeway that leads to a garden and shuttered restaurant. The gardens that bookend this main area are massive and lush, the kind of arboreal design indulgence one doesn’t find very much out East. The shuttered restaurant is ghostly and romantic, like an old wedding photo. A sign advertised it as available for filming.

The Pueblo lies roughly across the street from Union Station, a fitting welcome for new visitors to the city. The Pueblo was the center of the first incarnation of L.A., El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora la Reina de los Angeles del Rio de Porciuncula, founded in 1781. I’m not sure when the settlement’s name was shortened to “Los Angeles,” but I imagine it came as a relief to natives whose querents would fall asleep during the answer to the question of “Where are you from?” The Pueblo area later became the site of the city’s first Chinatown; hence the references to “New Chinatown,” in regard to the current district. The history of L.A.’s Chinatown, and its reason for relocation, are detailed at the Chinese-American Museum, right off the main Pueblo plaza. Apparently, the original Chinatown was leveled and the residents forcibly removed for the construction of the Union Station I so eulogize in the preceding paragraph.

From my perspective, the two most interesting landmarks on the Pueblo Plaza are La Placita and the Avila Adobe. La Placita was L.A.’s first established church, in 1814, and still provides a full range of services. I walked into the little chapel, where a golden icon was on display behind the altar, and a group of elderly folk were knelt at various pews in quiet prayer and reflection. At the opposite end was an impressive depiction of the crucified Christ, enclosed in a glass coffin and surrounded by a heap of flowers. A couple of people waited in line to pay homage and perform silent reflection. It takes an advanced cynic not to respect the spirit of such a place; such disconnect is out of my reach.

Across the Plaza from La Placita is Olvera Street. This narrow passage, lined with souvenir and trinket shops, is the home of many historic buildings, including the Avila Adobe, built in 1821, and recognized as L.A.’s oldest surviving residence. The place is fairly palatial, with several large rooms surrounding a contained garden; it was constructed by one of the first settlers to make their fortune in ranching, and was later used as the U.S. Army headquarters during the Mexican-American War. Olvera St., with its shaded, brick-paved confines, empties out onto E. Cesar Chavez, one of modern downtown’s main thoroughfares. The contrast between the quiet, adobe lined lanes of the Plaza and the traffic signals and exhaust of the City of Commuters is profound, but a necessary reminder of the L.A.’s depth and complexity. In the words of Emerson, “Do I contradict myself? Well, I contradict myself. I contain multitudes.” So it can be that a city centered around a driving culture can reveal so much to the sidewalk wanderer.

by Doug Matus
a writer from Texas who now lives in Los Angeles