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We wheel slowly in a huge circle after a fine glimpse of the Pacific’s blue expanse and are headed homeward. We are engrossed in watching the ribbons of road. Suddenly the staccato barck of the engines case. What’s wrong? Then just ahead we see the long row of grandstand and the lines of planes. We are coasting in to a landing. The engine in the wing nacelle blots out part of the landing view but we soon bump to a halt.
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One morning near the end of the week, our train companion, Charles Heddon and his son call for us in their car to show us Los Angeles and its environs.
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The car is a roadster but V.M. and I get in the rumble seat and with the Heddons as guides off we go. It is an ideal day though Californians will say that it is not “unusual.” Although in mid October it is warm.
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We now turned to Hollywood, drove through the business section pausing briefly before Grauman’s Chinese Theatre where many of the movie premieres are held, and then on into the hills above the city. The roads are very steep and wind around the sides of the mountain. Here and there we saw homes of the movie great clinging to the craggy slopes. In many places the house would bebuilt on the slope and the tennis court or gardens would be supported from huge walls of masonry from far down the slope.
We saw Norma Talmadge’s home and saw Tom Mix riding down the boulevard in a bright yellow roadster that looked as if it had a thousand horses under the hood. Other movie actors we passed taking their exercise on horseback. What a life.
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In Santa Monica we passed by the plant of the Douglas Aircraft Co. Shortly after this the company moved to new buildings at Clover Field in Santa Monica. This company is one the strongest on the Coast and have enjoyed considerable army business. They were building two and three place biplanes for reconnaissance work.
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Also in Santa Monica was the Bach Aircraft Company. This was a small company just starting in business and had developed a small tromotored monoplane. They had a ship at the Races at Mines Field for exhibition purposes.
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Turning westward at Santa Monica we stopped for a while to watch the Pacific roll in with its ever booming surf. At this point Marion Davies of movie fame built a great stone house part of which can seen above. It is a baronial like castle and I didn’t like it at all.
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A little farther on we came to a little park overlooking the sea. It had a very unusual rock fountain with a background of palms. All of the communities around here seem to delight in building beauty spots even close to their business districts. Many of our Midwestern cities could learn much about beautifying their communities by following the example of these western towns.
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I was much disappointed in Venice. Somehow one thinks of canals, beauty spots and wonderful buildings when that city is mentioned. Here we saw large piers bristling with Amusement concessions and shabby cottages. The beach was very nice and the waves were rolling high but otherwise I couldn’t say much for it. Venice – phooey.
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Driving south along the ocean drive we passed through the picturesque Palos Verde Hills which are very beautiful. They call this the American Riviera. The road winds along sometimes skirting a beach and then climbing high along the mountain face high above the booming surf.
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Through the lazy, sunny morning we drove following the coast line and shortly after noon we arrived at Long Beach. We strolled around the beach to see the sights. Heddon Jr. and I were enjoying ourselves at the other’s expense. Great rollers were surging in dual dames dabbled daintily in the dampness.
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Lunch at the hotel and then home through the hills. Enroute we passed many orange and lemon orchards. V.M. couldn’t resist getting out and posing before a lemon tree as his previous acquaintance with lemons had been from the grocer’s counter. For him it was a suitable ending for a very interesting trip.
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The Race Week had finally come to a close and V.M. and I had to separate – he returning home and I going to San Francisco and points north to improve sales for dear old Continental. So one rather foggy morning I arrived at Vale Field, which is the southern terminal for Western Air Express. Three hours journey north by air was the Golden Gate.
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While waiting for my plane I nosed around the passenger terminal and the hangars. Fokkers were being used on this line and I had a chance to examine one drawn up before the hangar for overhaul.
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The passenger terminal was rather Spanish in appearance with red tile roof. Radio cupola surmounted the roof and the radio was sputtering while the operator endeavored to find weather conditions northward. Apparently it was satisfactory for soon the northbound plane rolled up to the concourse and I boarded it for old Frisco.
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Taxiing across the field, the pilot gunned his engines several times and then away we roared into the thick soupy fog which seemed everywhere. We went into a climbing turn and suddenly we were out of the mist and in the blue sky. Heading north over Burbank we climbed towards the pass until the altimeter in the cabin read 9000 feet. We passed over the ridge and the mountains spread out in a great devil’s washboard.
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Ribbon-like roads squirmed away to be lost in the folds of the mountains. Off to the east the Mojave Desert unrolled to our view and beyond the peaks of the Continental Divide thrust their hoary scalps into the blue. A few lonely oil derricks jutted up from the barren, rocky slopes indicating human industry but otherwise we seemed the only occupants of this country.
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On we droned and at times I dozed off. Then off to the west I saw a plume of smoke rising from the mountainside. It must be a forestfire or a building burning. It is too high to seeclearly what it is. Past the toy houses of Bakersfield we go and on into the morning sun. I look at my watch and find that we have been in the air two hours and one half.
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Suddenly far ahead I catch the glint of sun on blue water. It is the ocean and San Francisco Bay is dead ahead. The whine of the engines drop in pitch as the throttles are retarded in the long slant towards Oakland. We pitch a littlexas we sail over the bay and then we are dropping down and coasting intto a landing at the Oakland Municipal Airport. We taxi up to the terminal and we are once more on terra firma.
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One day I had some time available so took a trip out To Golden Gate Park. The sea was dashing against the cliffs in foamy surges that sparkled in the sunlight. Through the Golden Gate were plying vessels for distant ports – freighters, tramps, liners – all hurrying out toward the setting sun.
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A lone lighthouse loomed up in the distance and grim Alcatraz was suning itself some horrible ogre awaiting its prey. The milky froth churning against the dark roack was indescribably beautiful.
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