Los Angeles

A City’s Essence

An Afternoon In Griffith Park

I hear the words “Los Angeles,” and I am already blinded. Brightness fills my brain, from the rows upon rows of headlights lining the highway at eight in the morning to the flashing Lights! Camera! Action! of the city’s rich, world-renowned film scene. Los Angeles: the city of lights. For some reason, this impression bothers me. All the conjured images point back to one general theme, one that I have not yet been able to shake from the young generation’s actions and ideas, one that I loosely associate with this city’s main appeal: superficiality. 

Two siblings waddle up the hill alongside us, panting heavily and falling farther and farther behind their owner. Listening to the trotting sounds of their furry paws and the exasperated grunts of extreme physical effort, I smile and silently will them to keep going a little further, just until the path meets a sparse distribution of trees where they can rest. We walk past them, and as I cast another passing glance at the consistent wagging of their tails, I suddenly take notice of my black dress swaying with my every climbing step. While comfortable, it is a bit of an unusual choice for a trail on which others are completing their daily workouts. It seems laughable now that I comment on the appearance-based culture of broader Los Angeles when I have in fact decided to highlight my appearance rather than functionality.

What is the essence of this city? 

Maybe there is a point to all this. The observatory, perched on the hills of Mount Hollywood, overlooks the entirety of the Los Angeles area. It looks, and perhaps frowns, down upon the bustle of fashionistas strolling down Rodeo Drive, the slow crawl of vehicles on the five. I chuckle, realizing that not even the tallest, proudest skyscraper standing in downtown can challenge the dominance and height of this landmark. 

Will we not be above it all?

And yet, this location seems to be the easiest to reach (not physically, of course, not after the initial adrenaline has worn off and the subsequent twenty minutes of upward climbing has left me decently and embarrassingly winded). Before embarking on this brief trek, no one questioned our motives for following the trail or asked us to pay an entrance fee. No purchase was necessary to enjoy the atmosphere, or fully experience the location’s intent and charm, unlike in so many of the other city attractions. We simply said we would, and so we did. 

Where, then, is the irony in the most accessible, down-to-earth attraction also taking the title of one of the most astronomical landmarks of this city?

I imagine for a brief second that I am indeed a Los Angeles native, and that this is my home. I see myself in the two moms, hiking side by side at an enviably brisk pace, chattering about the happenings of their days, or maybe their children, or maybe how they can’t be asked to force-feed Tyler any more broccoli. I see myself in the family of four, making a speedy descent to the general recreation area. This portion of the city feels humanized, it feels local, and I am compelled to say that this should be the essence of Los Angeles. These authentic interactions in the gloriously moderate weather could be the focus of attention, and yet the pruned facades in a race to accumulate the highest numbers, in whichever regard, so often take command.

Finally, we emerge at the top of the trail, greeted by large tour buses and shuttles offloading visitors speaking a colorful array of languages. We are right on time. 

The sun, the physical representation of the Southern California dream, begins its descent. People gather at the edges of the infrastructure to bid the burning star goodbye, some teetering dangerously on safety rails. The security guards are too deeply buried in the sheer number of other guests to notice the daring few. Its motion is quicker than anticipated, and soon, the entirety of the cliff on which the observatory stands is set on fire. The brilliant whites of the observatory walls reflect the sun’s last celebratory rays, painting the tones of our skin a warm orange. 

I see now; this is also light.

Words: Anna Fang

Photos: Apollonia Cuneo