|Jelly about 997's cooling ducts.|
The next morning we decided to visit the Peterson Museum. Our first museum of the trip, and to be honest, we were not that excited about it since we didn't quite know what to expect. After all, it was sunny out, so why would we dive into a museum for the better part of a precious day in the City of Angels? But any doubts were quickly washed away when we pulled into the parking lot. About 10 BMW i3's, loads of Porsches including a Mark 2 997 GT3 RS, and various vintage goodness was sprinkled throughout the parking lot. It had me thinking back to my visits to the Zuffenhausen Porsche Museum, and specifically its underground parking where you'll find 959 rally cars and Le Mans racers parked casually amongst rental Volkswagen Polo 1.4 diesels. It was like stumbling upon a hush-hush underground meet up of Cars & Coffee regulars who had finally brought out the good stuff now that the kids in their BRZ's and that dentist in his red 991 Convertible with matching red Sport Techno wheels aren't there.
|Barchetta. Ferrari Enzo's gift to Henry Ford. Priceless|
|A Hot Rod Legend, Peterson Museum.|
|London West Hollywood Hotel in Beverly Hills. Not a bad place to unwind.|
Mulholland Drive, Coldwater Canyon, Warner Brothers Studios: Having not really wasted an entire day at the Peterson Museum, we decided to head over to our hotel in Beverly Hills. We would be staying here for a few nights, so we decided to take it easy by just ordering some drinks by the rooftop pool before sampling Gordon Ramsay's Beef Wellington. "Not a bad day," I said, after dinner. My dad agreed.
The next day we vowed to do something even more touristy than the Peterson Museum. We were going to Hollywood to see the studios. I was especially excited as this (not quite, but nevertheless) involved driving through Rodeo Drive, the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, and, most importantly, via Mulholland Drive to Burbank, home of Warner Brothers Studios. Mulholland was pretty awesome. I say "pretty awesome" because my mind instantly switched to that of a teenager who's watched too much Matt Farah ripping through the canyons in big muscle American product. Left, right, left, right, up, down she goes. What a wonderful stretch of road. It was early so we had both no traffic, and lots of time to stop at all the view points. At one point, overlooking the open-air amphitheatre called "Hollywood Bowl," a celebrity-tours bus stopped that unloaded about fifty tourists all interested in taking a picture of me in my flashy Porsche. I smiled. And now in China there a bunch of friends and family members getting told that their Uncle saw the LA Clipper's Blake Griffin. Or more realistically, that they saw Chris Humphries. Apparently I look like the guy as one time a cashier lady pointed to an "In Touch" trashy Hollywood magazine that featured Chris and Kim (this is years ago) and went "you? him? huh? huh?" I off course, the unassuming, modest gentlemen that I am, leaned a bit closer, stared her right in the eyes, and quietly nodded "yeah."
|Chris Humphries. Spotted.|
|Universal Studios, up next.|