Yep, Los Angeles is a driver’s city. I thought I knew that, after traveling here several times as a kid and living the past two years as a USC student. But after spending a full day traversing the city, now I really know. It was a lot of time in the car– but I could have never even begun to understand the city without it. My bookpacking field trip changed not only how I viewed The Player, but how I viewed the city itself and how I travel in the future. I’ll spend at least two more years here in Los Angeles and hopefully a lot longer than that exploring the world, and so it couldn’t have come at a better time.

Through my bookpacking experience, I hoped to get closer to the reality of the city, straying outside the sheltered USC campus to dig into the wider LA. This was illuminating because it could exceed expectations, but also sometimes fail them– and either way I learned something. For example, at times I felt like the grand locations described in The Player had declined greatly over time, with little remaining of their historical beauty. As for things that exceeded my expectations, I was surprised by Los Angeles’ natural landscapes when driving around. As a Colorado native, I didn’t fully respect how gorgeous the areas around the city are. It’s still a city of highways, but I got some amazing views that showed why people everywhere idolize golden visions of California.

The Rialto Theatre in Pasadena, next to a Domino's Pizza

My strongest golden vision moment was driving along the winding roads of Beverly Hills, and then Beverly Glen (which by my understanding is like Beverly Hills’ even more expensive and exclusive cousin). For my two years at USC, I’ve been downtown and without a car, bound to a small radius around campus with no easy way to get around. While I couldn’t take any photos of the canyons and stunning houses above LA, it changed my perspective on the city I had been taking for granted. The main character of The Player, studio executive Griffin Mill, lives in Beverly Glen, and describes his similar experiences driving in Beverly Hills and Bel Air. “The wind inside the car was pleasant, like an island vacation ... ‘Hotel California’ reminded him of why he’d moved to Los Angeles, and his early years in town.” That’s what I felt like in the car– this was the Los Angeles that the media advertises, driving on a perfect day through Beverly Hills, windows down and playing an Eagles song.

Matching my own experience to this vibrant scene in the novel was exciting, though this was not the case for every location I visited. I was disappointed with how the modern day Rialto Theatre compared to the novel’s version. In the novel, Griffin catches up with a wannabe writer after watching an old classic at the Rialto in Pasadena. The theater was retro even when Griffin visited in the fictional 80’s, but by now it’s lost touch with the history. It was built in 1925, became one of the last single screen theaters in existence, was a location in Michael Jackson’s Thriller video, and now... it hasn’t shown a film since 2007 and appears empty and ignored.

Even if it wasn’t what I hoped, The Player helped to show me why the Rialto Theater, as a symbol for Hollywood as a whole, became what it is now. The novel is about dysfunctional executives, selfishness and mistreatment of the creatives, the writers, actors and directors. In The Player, Griffin’s studio commits to moviemaking as a full fledged business rather than a creative endeavor. That transition was years in the making, but the novel is incredibly revealing. Even the term “studio” implies artistry that I didn’t find in my bookpacking journey, both reading and traveling– I would say it’s more of a factory than anything else.

Warner Bros Studios: Icons and Landscapes

“Factory” is the exact impression I got from my time at Warner Brothers Studio, the implied studio where Griffin Mill is an executive. Sure, there are its gorgeous and iconic parts, like the famous water tower and a pull-in that looks exactly like where Mr. Mill would speed his Mercedes into before telling his secretary to park it for him.

But the other side (literally and figuratively) of Warner Bros, did not inspire any of the happiness you might believe would come from a place where they make movies for a living. Like I say, it was a factory, complete with the same barbed wire fencing, construction machines and a dull beige setting.

To me, this didn’t look like a place that creates wonderful films, but rather a large-scale system that churns out movies with the sole purpose of making millions of dollars. Warner Bros and Griffin Mill exist to make movies for “the big virile American public, those millions who create the movie stars, who demand polish, who demand emotional roller coasters, big laughs, big explosions, big tears.” I won’t act like I’m in any way above that– I’m one of those millions who craves the movies, consuming whatever the factory puts out. Still, coming face to face with the reality of the studios shocked me. I (along with so many others) chose to idolize Hollywood as a place of perfection, creativity and beautiful storytelling. It took reading The Player and visiting Warner Brothers and the Rialto to fully break this image in my heart.

If Warner Bros was the place where Griffin Mill took calls from pleading writers, and the Rialto was the place where he murdered one of them, the Polo Lounge (inside the Beverly Hills Hotel) was where the already “in” directors and executives came to cut their deals. Griffin calls these people “The Players of the Game”, shunning anyone who he doesn’t consider a “Player.” One of my favorite metaphors in the novel was when Griffin describes Hollywood like it’s a high school. He calls restaurants like the Polo Lounge “one of those student dining halls in the campus of Hollywood.” I just wish author Michael Tolkin had run with this metaphor longer, because it’s absurdly accurate. As Griffin goes between countless lunch meetings, it’s almost like he’s a teenager again– the content of the meeting is inconsequential, but he instead cares about who he’s seen with, what big time actor gives him a handshake and whether or not the maître’d gives him the best table. It’s hilariously superficial, like a high school freshman hoping to be invited to the “popular” table with the seniors. Griffin is self-aware enough to recognize it, but doesn’t feel any need to change. As much as the actors in his business, he’s putting on a show: “He was now pretending to be Griffin Mill eating in the Polo Lounge.”

Playing pretend is what got Griffin into trouble. His performance of a cutthroat Hollywood executive is masterful– he rejects any script that he considers too political, too artsy, too off-beat, or just flat out doesn’t like. He looks down on anyone not in his Hollywood club, referring to them as “civilians” who “didn’t love the movies the way he did.” One of the writers he spurned starts to threaten him with anonymous postcards, driving him wild as he tries to maintain his unbothered image. He confides in no one for fear of losing his status in the industry, but also because Griffin is very much alone. He has no true friends in this fake Hollywood system, he has a failing and distant relationship with one woman also in the movie industry, and he never mentions a family. It’s sad, but also entirely his fault. You’ll notice that I barely mention any characters besides Griffin in my reflections and quotes, which is because the novel is driven by his narcissistic, egotistical thinking. The Player is a book where the main character is the protagonist, antagonist and entire plot, and few characters get any attention at all. Maybe the only other character of significance is The Writer, the person sending the threatening postcards.

One of these postcards is delivered to the Polo Lounge during his meal, though he lies about its meaning to his fellow Hollywood big shots. For my bookpacking experience, I decided to grab lunch at the Polo Lounge to see if I could get a glimpse into the life of Griffin Mill. The first things I notice about the Polo Lounge are its old school atmosphere and the live pianist. Maybe the Rialto and Warner Bros have lost their gilded charm, but the Beverly Hills Hotel and Polo Lounge certainly haven’t.

As I sit down, I almost knock over the champagne for the group of women next to me, already feeling a little out of place. I knew what to expect when I looked at the menu, but the prices were still jarring. I decided to go through with it anyways– it’s not like I’ll be eating at a go-to Hollywood spot every day. Griffin orders a shrimp cocktail and a Pimm’s Cup, and sticking with his rant on Hollywood’s high school-like qualities, acknowledges it as “a teenager’s idea of sophistication.” I order chicken parmesan and a Coke with little regard for their sophistication, and settle down to survey the scene a bit more. The women whose champagne I bumped into are clearly regulars and are having a birthday celebration, at the tail end of their meal with cake. Not long after I sit down, they half ask, half demand that the pianist play both the birthday song and another song request from their past. Soon after, they start to engage me in conversation. I’m often reluctant to talk to random people when I’m on a solo outing, but I decide that this is a core experience of bookpacking, and that it’s essential I talk to them as I start to understand more about Los Angeles. For so many reasons, I’m incredibly glad I made that choice. Some will say it was luck or fate, but I don’t think so.

I tell them what I’m at the Beverly Hills Polo Lounge for; I’m taking a unique class where I hope to understand LA through reading one of its best novels, The Player. They immediately tell me that actor Jon Voight is here, and briefly try to figure out how I can get a picture with him, before dropping it and asking more about me. While I was at first taken aback by their air of entitlement, I quickly realized their kindness and genuine interest in what I’m saying. All three live in Los Angeles and highly recommended this particular hotel and restaurant. My only regret is that we weren’t able to talk longer, because I’m confident they would have been able to tell me plenty about Los Angeles, at least their own side of it. I order as they finish up the cake and champagne. As my food gets delivered, they ask if I want a picture. Well, more accurately, they simply declare that they will take a picture with them, and I give in as part of the fun. And as I dig into my meal, they call the waiter over one more time before leaving.

Taking a picture with the three women I met at The Polo Lounge

The Writer’s Postcard and Beverly Hills Hotel Sign

When I asked for my check, I found out that those three paid for my meal as an amazing surprise, the apex of my bookpacking experience. It’s unfair to make generalizations about the entire city from three people at the Beverly Hills Hotel, but in our short conversation I learned a lot, especially in contrast with The Player. At one point, Griffin talks about his limousine, one of the special perks of his job: “There was always a feeling of warm entitlement that came with riding in a limousine... It was impossible to Sign feel a kinship with ordinary people in dented, rusted cars with uncomfortable seats.” With lines like this, I frequently wrote in the margins about how snotty Griffin is. The novel may have made me judge the well-to-do, Hollywood, entitled sect of Los Angeles harshly, but my experience at the restaurant combats that. These women were wealthy, sure, but they were also friendly, grateful and warm. As in every city, there is nuance within each group, and I left knowing that the fictional Griffin Mill and his partners do not represent an entire population.

When I started my bookpacking trip, I didn’t realize that there is value when the novel and place agree, like when I drove through Beverly Hills, but also when they disagree, like visiting the Rialto, and the difference between the fictional characters and my new friends at the Polo Lounge. Traveling and reading together create a fuller picture of the location, and I’m glad I was able to do both.

In a city full of Hollywood exaggeration and fiction, maybe one of the biggest lies of Los Angeles is the proximity of its iconic locations. I knew that consciously, but there’s nothing like several hours in LA traffic to really hammer in just how far they are. As a non-native, It’s a little bit of a shock to find out that the Santa Monica Pier, Hollywood sign and downtown can easily be hours away from each other. I covered sixty miles for the core of my bookpacking journey: USC to Pasadena, Pasadena to Burbank (who knew that most movie studios aren’t actually in true Hollywood?), Burbank to Beverly Hills. No matter how much books like The Player and The Big Sleep talked about driving, there’s nothing like actually doing it to understand what a “driver’s city” really means. It’s easy to use the traffic as a punchline and jab against Los Angeles, but there is a grain of truth in driving being part of the city’s identity. I used my time driving to gaze out at the city, ocean and hills, reflecting back on the most recent location I visited. There was value in both the disappointing locations and the exciting ones, and so there was a lot to think about. In all, my LA experience wasn’t complete just by visiting all the attractions, but also by shuttling between them.

Like I mentioned with my initial reluctance to dive into conversation with the women at Polo Lounge, I realized I don’t usually travel with a fully open mind. I may have fun and learn plenty about a location, but it took bookpacking The Player to recognize a couple key points. First, there’s the joy of traveling to a city with an empty schedule, wandering rather than touring. Following my nose rather than a pre-set plan is what gave me a great experience. Even more importantly, bookpacking led me to open myself up to conversations that I would have never had before. Though the gifted meal was a nice benefit, this goes far beyond that one conversation, restaurant, and even the city of Los Angeles. I learned about taking chances and random connections and following whims, which is a lesson that can be applied to any city, any book. I hope to think back to that lunch whenever I’m traveling to a new place, because it’ll remind me how exciting it can be to connect with new people. That connection made my day, week, and semester, and I hope it made theirs too. Parts of it were strokes of sheer luck, of course, but with natural curiosity and a willingness to take chances like I did, I believe you actively “create” luck. Bookpacking as a means of exploration is the perfect example of making your own luck. The Bookpacking required packing list may vary from city to city, but the book itself is what ties it all together– it’s your historian, your guide, and most importantly, your good luck charm.