Los Angeles is something I have spent a lifetime idealizing. As a romantic to my very core and someone who reads Eve Babitz and Joan Didion with a sort of biblical reverence, L.A. has always been mythic to me — the center of civilization, one of the only places worth living in. 

I have been proven time and time again that reality will seldom line up with expectations I have in my head. L.A. is still wonderful to me, but it also inspires constant feelings of disappointment: “Oh, that’s that famous place?” “Oh, you mean we’re on Sunset Boulevard right now?” 

Perhaps one of the greatest examples of this disconnect is the nightclub scene. Characterized by exclusivity, taking pictures instead of dancing and the prevailing attitude of needing to know “the right people,” many of the most popular clubs in L.A. serve as evidence of everything people hate about this city. The club scene in its current state also makes me wish I was born even 10 years earlier, back when the term “influencer” was still in its infancy and we were all slightly less crippled by self-awareness.

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I have — despite being freshly 21 — spent my fair share of time at the “most popular,” or “exclusive,” going out spots in L.A., and what I have seen has consistently fallen short. There was one night when celebrating a friend’s birthday, we decided to go to Bootsy Bellows, the David Arquette-owned club where Brody Jenner is rumored to be in charge of music. It was known to be a spot for celebrities to party, thus — at least in my head — it was known to be a good time. I was over the moon at first. What a spontaneous, distinctly L.A. night. 

We arrived to find a line of people begging to be let in and bouncers who seemed to relish the power of telling people “no.” Though we were eventually let in (as a result of our promoter and some smooth talking) and I had a fun night with my friends, I was struck by how ordinary the club actually was. It was — all in all — merely a room to dance. I was confused as to why there was so much hype surrounding it and why I had bought into the notion that it would somehow be superlative.  

I read afterward about Bootsy’s recent renovation. Its changing layout also reflects a changing culture — one that I’d argue has changed for the worse. The remodeling included the demolition of the VIP room: According to an interview co-owner Brian Toll did for the Hollywood Reporter, ​​“When Bootsy first opened in 2012, celebrities wanted to be hidden … they wanted to have their own room and not be bothered … The celebrities who go out now want to be seen, they want to be on Instagram, they call the paparazzi on themselves.” 

The influencers that have become characteristic of L.A. come to nightclubs to achieve visibility and clout. They themselves are the commodity, and every experience is something to be sold. 

More recently, I went to Keys, a newer club in West Hollywood. Despite being on a list, my friends and I waited in a line that can more accurately be characterized as a mosh pit. We stood shoulder to shoulder with people dressed to the nines — all of whom were also on a list, pushing and shoving their way to the front. 

Once we were finally let in, I was surprised at how empty the room was. Why were they making everyone breathe down each other’s necks outside when there was so much space inside? The performance of exclusivity annoyed me. 

I was struck also by the utter and complete lack of dancing. The emphasis seemed to be on taking pictures, or even just going on one’s phone. It all felt exceedingly false. In many so-called major L.A. clubs I’ve set foot in, the focus seems to be on how things look, rather than how things feel. 

Why are we performing as if we are having a good time when that very act may preclude us from actually having a good time? I want to go somewhere where everyone is there merely to dance; I want to be surrounded by people who don’t care how many followers I have. I guess I didn’t realize that such a culture does not exist in L.A., or if it does, I’m going to have to search a little harder for it.