The Metro strike continued, and we continued to get about by taking the hotel's free shuttle to the airport (every day, the driver would ask "You flying out today?" and attempt to persuade us on to one of his VIP Tours), the free shuttle from the airport to the bus station, and any bus that happened to be running. Bus tickets were a bargain 75 cents to anywhere.
Today it took us to Santa Monica, a district devoted to shopping and unashamed of it whereI bought a copy of Barbara Feldon's definitely-not-a-women's-self-help book, some superbly tacky postcards and a scoop of peanut butter ice cream.
Passing an anti-war demo and some grinning cops, who allowed me to take their photo after I swore I was just there as a tourist, we hit the pier. Rode the carousel, petted starfish at the aquarium (everything there was strokeable except the sharks, lobsters and rays, and all the creatures could be found in local waters) and watched a chap doing DDR Xtreme - easily as good as tktiger and, I'm afraid, with a more impressive physique. He wasn't sweating at the end of the round, just glistening in a muscular way all over.