Taking the Road Most Traveled

It begins with unapologetic suddenness on Grand Street in downtown Los Angeles, bifurcating the space between 6th and 7th streets where an office building spells it out--One Wilshire Boulevard. The first few blocks run dark, in the perpetual shade of urban canyon; at Flower Street there is a patch of blue occupied by the diminutive ceramic tower of the downtown Central Library.

A block or so later, in front of the Sanwa Bank Plaza, stands a bit of public art, twin black obelisks curtained by running water, symbols now difficult to miss. Here, Wilshire rises into the endlessly reflected glare of desert on concrete, running northwest out of the city, up and across the 110, where it begins in earnest its 15-mile run to the sea.

The streets and boulevards of Los Angeles are the totems of the city, the cultural centers we are often said to lack. Not for Angelenos the piazzas or promenades on which to stroll and collect dust and history; we want roads like rivers, roads that move us, move with us, roads that tell us stories of where we’re going, where we’ve been. And of all the thoroughfares, Wilshire knows the city best. Grande dame and wise woman, she has been here since before there was a city, an ancient footpath turned wagon trail, a boundary of the early rancho; for decades it was known simply as El Camino Viejo, “The Old Road.”

In 1885, it was named after H. Gaylord Wilshire, a rich socialist who developed property near what is now MacArthur Park, where the old road petered out. It was his idea that the boulevard connect downtown with Santa Monica. And as Wilshire sails through the park, as it widens and makes itself comfortable, like a well-dressed matron settling into a seat on a train, the aspirations of man and street become poignantly clear.

A lovely old apartment house is now a Sheraton, and the Deco wonder of Bullocks Wilshire closed years ago. High-rise shade cools the sidewalks at Berendo, thrown by office towers footed by storefronts. The overgrown ruins of the Ambassador Hotel is the only break in what is a workaday street, as close to a haunted house as you get in this town, with its memories of the Coconut Grove glamour and assassination.

Now houses of God rise, one right after the other--Wilshire Christian Church, St. Basil Catholic Church, Wilshire Boulevard Temple, St. James, the Scottish Rites Temple, the United Methodist Church. Other landmarks--the Wilshire Ebell, the Wiltern Theatre also appear, swarmed by strip malls and parking lots, fast-food joints and mini-marts.

The Asahi Beer building announces the beginning of Miracle Mile. Stretching from La Brea to Fairfax avenues, it was the first shopping area designed specifically for motorists, including the unheard of idea of parking lots. Today, Staples and Blockbuster stand where department stores once did, streamlined retro alongside the Korean Cultural Center, the Conga Room and the El Rey Theatre.

Between Museum Row and San Vicente, the October weather shifts from inland sun to coastline cool, and Johnnie’s Coffee House and a really great 99 Cents Only store surrender to Beverly Hills. Here, Wilshire serves up Barneys and Saks, and Robinsons-May has its own cross-street sign. The only road permitted through the L.A. Country Club, Wilshire leaves its straight western course at Beverly Glen, curves south, banked by a chorus line of apartment buildings, terraced towers that shoulder the sky like the modern standing stones. Traffic picks up speed, swooping downhill, past the pale Federal Building, the National Cemetery, through the Veterans Administration grounds and into Santa Monica.

The ocean is a silver line on the horizon from Centinela Avenue on, and Wilshire abandons grandeur for upscale funky. Here the landmarks are not the churches or theaters but odd businesses and bars--the Tinder Box, the Pacific Dining Car, Sonny McClean’s pub, O’Brien’s Pub, the Gas Lite, the defunct Zucky’s Delicatessen. Here there is no shade, the sky hangs close like a low ceiling. Then, just past the Third Street Promenade in front of the Fairmont Miramar, Wilshire ends, stopped by Ocean Boulevard, Palisades Park and that sky. It is not an ignoble end, for standing there between two palms is a statue of Saint Monica. Mr. Wilshire’s dream come true.

It takes about an hour and 20 minutes on a good day, but if you want a hit of instant L.A., it’s well worth the drive.