Today is Easter. Unsurprisingly, I woke up late and missed morning mass. Thankfully there is an evening prayer I can go to. I don’t attend church religiously, but I don’t mind going occasionally. I’m not really sure what an evening prayer entails, but it doesn’t matter. I’m meeting someone special there.

The church is beautiful. It is also empty. I follow a voice to a tiny side chapel. A priest is reading a prayer in front of about six people. I have, of course, arrived late. My entrance is not subtle as I awkwardly make my way to a chair in the front. Apparently evening prayer is not a widely attended event, even on Easter. Towards the end of the service the priest starts reading the prayers of the people. Basically, they read aloud the names of people living and dead that you/ the church collectively, is supposed to say a prayer for. I listen for his name, though I know he passed before I was born, too long ago for it to be read. I am surprised. People with HIV/AIDS are mentioned twice, once for those living with it, once for those who have died from it. I wonder at the impact the disease had on this church’s community, its psyche. The impact it still has. This is my Uncle Christopher’s church, and though his name is not read specifically, he is one of the many who has died of AIDS. The priest pauses for a moment of silence, and I spend some time with my uncle. My version of Easter.

After the service I wander around a bit looking for a plaque I have been told is there with my namesake on it. I can’t find it, but I don’t want to go home yet. I walk a few blocks away from this serene church and reach Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. The streets are packed as always. I enter a huge souvenir warehouse blasting today’s latest hits and buy a bright pink, sparkly Hollywood shot glass, which I find amusing. After a bit more meandering I grab some coffee and retreat into the lobby of The Roosevelt. Uncle Chris used to work here, managing talent. Sitting down on a large couch, I try to make sense of my past and present, and this strange city that has somehow managed to weave itself into both.

Most, if not all, of the previous blog posts grapple with the dichotomies that we are finding in LA. Fake vs. real. Luck vs. hard work. Success vs. failure. Business vs. art. Old vs. new. Acceptance vs. Intolerance. Calm, beautiful church vs. sparkly pink shot glass. Personal reflection vs. good ol fashion consumerism. Long standing communities still recovering from tragedies vs. tourists, coming and going, yet still a permanent Hollywood presence. Whiplash is a word we have been using a lot to describe our experiences here. It is not necessarily a bad thing. It is exhausting, but it certainly makes you think. The whiplashes of the day and week have given me a lot to mull over as I continue to try and make sense of this city professionally as well as personally.

The offices of Creative Artists Agency are all marble and glass. Every surface reflects. Jordan Peele sits across from our class in the lobby—gray hoodie, hood up, and candy-colored Reeboks. Someone’s assistant walks over to him, heels clicking, and shakes his hand. I cannot tell if this is the first time they have met, or if this routine has been performed many times before. They enter one of the elevators; each elevator has a glass back so that you can see every level you rise above fall down below you. A couple minutes later, our class takes the same elevator several floors up to meet with an agent at CAA. We meet in a beautiful conference room that looks onto skyscrapers reflecting sky.

Then, an hour or so later, our class is at an In N’ Out. There’s a massive line and half of it hangs out the front door. Outside, I watch a spilled milkshake melt in the sun and run towards the trashcan, pooling around some french fries and pieces of lettuce. I’m not entirely sure why, but I find this incredibly comforting.

Days later, I keep returning to that day, when we visited sparkling CAA and followed it up with a sloppy fast-food lunch. I came to Los Angeles knowing only what I’d heard from friends and prepared mostly by what I saw in the movies. I wanted LA demystified. But it’s a complicated place, and the fraction of it that I have seen has given me no easy answer. Parts of it have reinforced the glamour and mythology of Hollywood. Other parts have revealed something more ordinary and uninspiring. It’s kind of like whiplash, between the decidedly dressed-up CAA offices and the greasiness of the In N’ Out. I have found this both intimidating and reassuring—kind of like the term ‘business casual’.

However, I have been most surprised by and thankful for the kind people we meet. Yesterday, our class met several Foley artists at Warner Bros.—they are responsible for creating sounds and soundscapes for films from scratch. They were hesitant to talk to us at first. But once we piled into their studio, they were like kids, excitedly showing us how old handbags and broken tables pressed and pulled in the right ways sounded like a creaking ship’s mast. Just this afternoon, my Uber driver was an actor who had small parts in The Walking Dead Ep. 602 and the upcoming film about Anita Hill. He insisted we become Facebook friends when he told us he was from Denver and discovered we went to school in the Springs. It’s these people I meet who will leave more of an impression on me than any serene corporate lobby or messy fast-food joint. They are the reason this sprawling city breathes, and the reason I might come back.