Welcome to LA LA Land, where even the homeless have designer kit

Effusive customer service. Water pressure. Dinner plates piled to feed a family. Air conditioning that actually works. Yup, I'm back in America. But not just any old bit; I'm working in the positively gorgeous environs of Santa Monica, California.

I can't explain why at the moment; we're not releasing that news until later in the month. It will certainly be worth a blog entry or two. Let's just say I was in development meetings for a new marketing partnership, and I appreciated the fact that these future partners live someplace with a beach, nice hotels and a trendy, walkable downtown area. This may be the first time I've ever said this about any location in California, but with enough money to buy into the real estate, I could see myself living here.

The biggest revelation of my visit, however, was that I could be broke and move here, too. Every morning on my walk in Palisades Park I passed scores of needy souls wrapped in sleeping bags. This being Southern California, most were cushioned by cast off yoga mats. A little research yielded the news that the regular homeless in Santa Monica number almost 2,000, a full two per cent of the beach town's regular residents. They're attracted by the weather, a sympathetic city government and charities that offer good food daily.

These people occupy a different planet from the British homeless I walk by between Waterloo and St. Pauls. London's homeless are ragged, dirty, almost always in their 20s, strung out and thin as rakes due to whatever drugs are coursing through their veins. It's actually fairly easy to ignore them, as they are already wraith-like creatures with one foot in the grave. (And I'm not being heartless here. All the homeless charities tell you not to give them money, but to direct them to the official charities.) The Santa Monica homeless are in a different class. Older, well fed, generally well dressed and tidy enough to pass without notice were it not for the fact that they were pulling their belongings beside them in neatly packed parcels. Clearly, even the cast offs are good in this town, as the beggars' bundles were collected into nice bags or pieces of luggage, and piled atop various wheeled contraptions of fairly new provenance. I saw some distinctly upscale prams that would still be carting around middle class babies in most other countries.

I really wasn't sure how to feel about this discovery. Afraid to take my morning walk? Horrified that this level of homelessness exists in America? Proud that in my homeland even the street people are well dressed and have a lot of stuff? Or awkward about the fact that while these people were sleeping rough, I was calling the luxurious Huntley Hotel home?

I tried not to feel bad about the Huntley, but couldn't avoid just a twinge of guilt as I sat in its top floor bar, The Penthouse, sipping a perfectly blended cosmopolitan and watching the sun set over the mountains. Moving past the initial emotion, I acknowledged that as tedious as business travel can be, there are some benefits.

The Huntley is of a type: hip and uber-trendy, more reminiscent of a nightclub than a hotel. fortunately, the designers had gone for an elegant club with light colours, scented candles and art inspired by the undersea world, thus narrowly missing the tacky hideousness I despised in the W at Times Square. The rooms are black, beige and brown, with plenty of mirrors to reflect all that light spilling through the big windows. The views are of beach, mountain and the flower-draped suburbs, which, to my eyes, beats any view from New York on any day of the year. I really enjoyed the art, from the installation of white wooden fish swimming across the lobby wall to the coral fronds used as wall sculpture and the abstract prints of marine forms. The Penthouse bar is all gauzy white drapes and crystal chandaliers with views from every angle. Evidently it's not unusual to spot a star or two in the room, though everyone we saw looked fairly normal. If a bit overly botoxed.

(I had my LA star moment two days later when I shared a plane, and a brief stint in the security line, with Keanu Reeves.)

Almost as trendy was Sushi Roku, one of a small chain of Japanese restaurants in Southern California. More elegant design (black, polished wood, pale stone walls), more fine views (across Ocean Drive to Palisades Park with the water beyond), more excellent service and exquisitely prepared fish in great variety. At $70 per person for sashimi, three sushi rolls, a couple of martinis each and dessert, it was probably also the most expensive sushi I've consumed. But you have to pay for that view. And, no doubt, the contribution to the homeless soup kitchen.

We had another excellent meal at The Lobster, perched on the hillside directly above Santa Monica pier. Top quality seafood, fine wine and service so cheerful I was paralysed by culture shock for several minutes.

By Friday afternoon my culinary elegance was heading south with my car, however, as I stopped by my favourite taco stand in Redondo Beach. Business wrapped, it was off for a quick visit to my family in Palos Verdes. A romp with the little people, a catch-up with my cousin and his wife, more sushi, a good night's sleep, a bit more visiting and a spot of power shopping on the way to the airport. Thus 24 hours of life got packed against the work of the trip. And that, of course, was the best benefit of all.