Griffith Observatory

Last night, curled up in my seat on the Coach bus traveling down from Griffith Park along Santa Monica Blvd with five different kinds of chocolate covered tart desserts stuffed in my knapsack, I could think of only one word to describe the evening: satiating. I had spent the night at a special event at the Griffith Observatory, one of the must-see spots on my list of Los Angeles sites and places. I had found out about the event from two of my friends who are also working as science writers in the Los Angeles area. Originally intended as an opening event for PBS to launch a television press junket, the trip to Griffith Park had been opened up to local reporters and science writing types. My friends and I were intrigued not only by the lure of the Observatory but also by words that no intern can resist: free food.

This is not to say that interns are not highly evolved creatures with a sense of refinement and class, but certain situations (i.e. abject poverty and long hours) can easily reduce us to a more primitive state. Basic needs take over and suddenly we are driven by the instincts of our ancestors. Take an average day at NPR West for me for example.

Mornings begin before dawn when I creep about my cave-like apartment scavenging for clothing and the occasional piece of toast in the dark. By 5:45 I am at work, busily booking, adrenaline pumping through my system as I conduct research on Live Earth for Frangela. By 11:30 when it’s time for lunch, I cautiously scarf down my sandwich, carefully watching to make sure no one tries to steal my yogurt and banana. By late afternoon, with lunch gone, I am suddenly aware of every piece of edible food in the entire building. Someone unwraps a lifesaver three cubicles away, and I can sense it. The moment a half finished box of Wheat Thins is left on the counter, I can immediately smell the nutty, wheaty fragrance of the slightly stale crackers. Before the generous Wheat Thin donor has even finished writing “Please Take Some” in Sharpie on a paper towel, I am there, hands outstretched. I hate to conform to these stereotypic intern behavior patterns, but I honestly can’t resist my caveman instincts. The need for food—both powerful and blinding—consumes me and I can suddenly picture what it must have been like for primitive man, always hunting, always searching, never satisfied.

But last night, plentiful feasts abounded. The PBS and Wired Science event at the Observatory was catered by Wolfgang Puck, which meant enough chicken tostatadas and guacamole plantains to feed an entire cave of interns. And those were just the hor dourves. As the sun set and the dim lights of the buffet table illuminated the Observatory’s courtyard, I imagined what it must have been like to gather about a campfire after a long hunt and feast. It must have been here, their needs momentarily met, that my ancestors discovered the heavens and connected stories to its constellations.

Rising above us over the brightly lit, smog filled city of Los Angeles, the sky is full of…nothing. No stars. No moon. Merely a red reflective smear of pollution. But inside the Observatory’s planetarium, the sky is illuminated. As lights and shadows twinkle across the concave screen, a dramatic voice explains the stories of the heavens, the big dipper, Ptolemey’s theory of crystal spheres, Galileo’s observations of Jupiter’s moons, Hubble’s giant telescope, and the mystery of dark matter and dark energy. The panoramic show takes us from the big bang to the edges of our expanding universe and slowly back to the familiarity of the Milky Way and our tiny, precarious home.

Watching the giant universe swallow up our little planet is always a haunting, disorienting reminder of how delicate the balance of our lives on Earth are. And how rare, amid the race for food and bookings, are the moments when we can truly look heavenward, and be filled the same feeling of astonishment and satiation humans must have felt since the dawn of the zodiac and the first storytellers. On the bus ride home from the Observatory, looking out across the glowing din of the city, I squinted and turned the LA skyline into a sea of starry light.