Take the hop-on hop-off tour of Tinseltown

I am a Los Angeles refusenik, lured and repelled by the city's charms. As Gertrude Stein once said of LA: "There is no there there." For years I've avoided the strange dystopia, the smog, the sprawling 'burbs.

Yet I long to visit Beverly Hills, Sunset Strip, and Rodeo Drive. I want to loiter outside Grauman's Chinese Theatre recalling Oscar nights; place my hands in the prints of the stars.

And here I am, by dint of a road trip through California, with 24 hours before my plane takes off for London. The timing is perfect. A Starline tour has just been launched with 19 stops that thread together the LA icons. "Hop-On, Hop-Off" the publicity reads. A single day costs $30. A second day costs a few dollars more.

And so, at the Chinese Theatre terminus, I sit atop a double-decker bus, hemmed in by a bunch of American schoolgirls as we crawl down Hollywood Boulevard. The girls ignore the spiel, comprehensively missing the place where Brad Pitt once handed out flyers dressed as a chicken. "We're here for the shopping," says Ceci from Dallas, aged 16.

Up Sunset Boulevard, we crawl past the doorway to the Rockwalk, flick a left at Chateau Marmont (where John Belushi died), pass the purlieu of Beverly Hills, then enter the glitz of Rodeo Drive, where oestrogen levels surge as the girls catch sight of the shops.

Like a Roman pantheon – Gucci, Armani, Versace – the windows offer merchandise dressed as dreams. Ceci squeals. The girls disgorge, a St Trinian's remake in Texas accents. "Ladies beware, hold on to your credit cards," cautions the voiceover, adding, "Men – hold on to your wives!"

I hold on to my seat as we lurch away towards Farmers Market, passing the Beverly Wilshire Hotel (seen in Pretty Woman), the John Wayne statue fronting the tower owned by porn supremo Larry Flynt. Cue a bevy of shopping dens (I resist) – Beverly Shopping Center, The Grove, the grungy full length of Melrose Avenue (Stella McCartney ensconced in splendid isolation), with Paramount Studios like a fortress standing at its end. The bus swings north, affording a sight of the Hollywood sign.

This isn't the planet's prettiest city. Too many parking lots, scattered wasteland, the splurge of graffiti and crumbling shopfronts, grime and welfare cases. I sit alone. Soon Mark, my driver (later my buddy and one of the nicest guys on the planet), starts to worry. Stopping the bus, he dashes upstairs to check I haven't had a seizure. "Seen any celebrities?" he asks. "Last Friday Bruce Willis was having lunch at Farmers Market. People thought he was a lookalike!"

On my second circuit, I stop at the Rockwalk "Wall of Fame" to pay brief homage to Janis Joplin, and ask her forgiveness for gracing the shops of Rodeo Drive. Ten minutes later, I loiter, observing shop assistants perfecting glacial smiles.

The Petersen Auto Museum provides an hour of release. Then feeling peckish – and one stop later – Farmers Market offers my palate so much choice that I start to drool at the nearby pastry shop for dogs. Inside, there's a guy who looks like Meatloaf. No sign of Bruce Willis. A cup of tea later, I hop towards Paramount. Big mistake.

First, you must book – and get there early. I have done neither. Tours take two hours. So I have to make do with a view of the gate, sneak a peek at the bench from Forrest Gump, then jump back aboard, bound for quieter pastures, a meeting with Cecil B DeMille.

Paramount mogul DeMille is best known for his epic crowd scenes. He lies at my feet. Nearby are Jayne Mansfield, director John Huston, matinee idol Tyrone Power. I am at the Hollywood Memorial Park. It's a crowd scene of sorts, but silent, a place worth visiting just for the peace.

There, stretched by the lake enjoying the crickets, I start to regret that I haven't allowed another day to exploit the hop-on, hop-off deal. You make your own tour. I enjoy this sanctum so much that I almost miss my connection.

Next stop is the Wax Museum, the figures comically awful. Arnie the Terminator is recognisable only by his outfit. Marilyn too, in her puffed-up frock, her teeth grotesque.

At the final stop, along Hollywood Boulevard, just a bubble-gum pop from the waxworks, I pause by the hand prints of the stars. Some fans prostrate themselves here, taking pictures beside their heroes' indelible calling cards. Harrison Ford (meaty fingers), John Wayne (tiny feet), Jimmy Durante (nose print a bonus). A Jack Sparrow lookalike wields his cutlass. I get to my knees and press my palms in the prints of Jack Lemmon. My Hollywood idol.

Time for my close-up, Mr DeMille.

COMPACT FACTS

How to get there

Virgin Atlantic (08705 747 747; virginatlantic.com) offers return flights from Heathrow to Los Angeles from £360.

The Renaissance Hollywood Hotel (0800 221 222; renaissancehollywood.com) offers double rooms from £141 per night, some with views of the Hollywood sign.

The Hop-On, Hop-Off Double Decker Fun Tour by Starlines Tour (001 323 463 3333; starlinetours.com) departs Grauman's Chinese Theatre every 90 minutes from 9.30am daily.

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