It’s common knowledge that Los Angeles is a city of dreamers. People go there to escape their past, reinvent themselves, and chase their dreams. I’ve always imagined that one day I would be one of those people. I realized how much this city has changed me – for the better. From the moment I arrived, there was something about Los Angeles that just felt right. It’s hard to explain, but it’s like the city chose me as much as I chose it. And over the past twenty years, I have fallen head-over-heels in love.
You will always be my city of firsts.
You were my first trip to America. I caught the bug.
You were first my major theme park. The primary source of my happiness.
My first international trip alone. Not too far from home, but an exquisite taste of freedom.
My first date. How special it was to me.
My first kiss. I was terrible, but he was perfect.
My first time. Kind of traumatizing, yet somehow the best I could have asked for.
The first time I cried in an Uber. The driver told me to let it all out, but that if I didn’t want to cry over a man, I needed to find one that loved Jesus.
My first time going to a rave. Once was definitely enough. Had a panic attack in the bathroom. Glad I went though.
My first taste of cookie butter. Where had it been all my life?
My first taste of the film industry. Cory in the House, backstage.
The first time, as an adult, that I felt true, true happiness. It’s a secret.
My first time at a hostel. I met an amazing friend.
Even simply an establishing shot or stock footage of the LA skyline at night gives me heart palpitations.
For a fleeting moment, it feels like I’m staring at a crush. My cheeks flush with excitement, alive to the possibilities. Rarely do I feel so alive.
From the butterflies to the longing to be wrapped in its clammy, gridlocked arms. Preferably for a lifetime, but just that moment would do.
In my heels and little red dress, I feel pretty here. Alone in the Roosevelt Hotel, I play pretend. It’s 1951 and I’m a Hollywood starlet. Manicured fingers pull a bottle of whiskey from the liquor cabinet and I pour myself an imaginary glass.
Maybe one day someone will hold my hand at Santa Monica and Las Palmas. There, I can squeeze our interlaced fingers and say, “this is where I knew that I had to be here.” We would pass by a cluster of weathered gray buildings — the studio — where it all began for me. I cried here once. But now I’m on the same street. And I’m smiling because I’m in love.