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Griffith Observatory wasn't just a famous Los Angeles landmark — it was the unofficial capital of dates.
Tourists came. Locals came. Couples came. Teenagers came.
And since most schools were still on winter break, the place was crowded enough to feel like a festival.
Henry and Bobbi stood on the viewing deck in the sharp afternoon sun. Bobbi had taken off her knit hat because of the heat, letting the ocean breeze lift her golden waves. Her hair caught the sunlight like spun gold, dazzling enough that more than a few guys stopped mid-step to stare — and quite a few girls scowled at Henry for standing beside her.
The newcomer to Hollywood shielded her brow with one hand, squinting toward the distant HOLLYWOOD sign.
"It's tiny," she complained.
"It's far," Henry said with a grin. "Two point six kilometers in a straight line. If you can still see it this clearly from here, you can imagine how big it really is."
"Can we go closer?" Bobbi asked.
Henry pointed around them. "Both the observatory and the sign sit in Griffith Park. There's a hiking trail that goes between them. If you're feeling heroic, you can hike from here all the way to the sign — about ten kilometers round-trip. Gorgeous scenery, famous 'Batcave' tunnel, the whole deal. Interested?"
Bobbi shot him a disdainful look. "Are you serious?"
Henry laughed. "Just talking. We're not dressed for a ten-kilometer hike today."
"So… can we at least drive closer?" she insisted.
"Sure. We can shorten some of the distance by car, but the sign itself is fenced off. No direct road access. Even if the maintenance gate happens to be unlocked, the path's unpaved. It'll be bumpy. Still want to go?"
"Yes! It's too small from here — I want a proper look." She was practically bouncing.
A paying tourist is always right. Henry wouldn't dream of raining on her enthusiasm.
And he knew the truth: nine people out of ten gave up once they realized there was still a long walk ahead.
They got back in the Cadillac and headed off — a short flight by eye, but a long winding drive by road.
To make conversation during the climb up the mountain roads, Henry said, "The sign sits on the south slope of Mount Lee, part of the Santa Monica Mountains. At the top is a radio transmission site. Used to broadcast television until '51. Now it's home to non-commercial FM stations."
Bobbi tilted her head. "So someone actually owns this mountain?"
"Most of it, yeah. It's private land."
"That narrows it down to a lot of rich people."
Henry smirked. "Rich is not enough. Try rich and Hollywood-connected."
Bobbi blinked. "Wait… Howard Stark?"
"Bingo. Now inherited by Tony Stark. Rumor says old Howard wanted to build a secret love nest here for Ginger Rogers. They broke up before a single brick was laid."
"Wow…" Bobbi murmured — and out of politeness, refrained from further comment on the recently deceased.
"So we're driving toward the radio station?" she asked.
"Closest legal parking area. Coming from below is a nightmare."
"And you said the place is fenced off? Managed by someone?"
"Yup. Originally the sign read 'HOLLYWOODLAND' — a real estate ad. Became a cultural symbol over time. In '78, Hugh Hefner rallied donors — nine of them gave twenty-seven thousand seven hundred dollars each — to rebuild the entire thing in steel. That's the version you see today."
Bobbi blinked. "Hugh Hefner? Playboy Hugh Hefner?"
"The very same. And now the Hollywood Sign Trust maintains it. The area's closed because, well… someone killed herself here."
"She died?" Bobbi gasped.
"In 1932. Peg Entwistle. Jumped off the H."
"That's— That's awful!"
"Hey, maybe we'll find clues from sixty years ago," Henry said with a wicked grin.
She glared. "You do know ghost stories ruin the mood of a scenic trip, right?"
"A tour without ghost stories is just a walk. But you look like a true STEM student — hardly the type to shriek at spooky tales."
"Oh? Want me to scream for you?" Bobbi leaned closer, fluttering her bright blue eyes in a mock-innocent tease.
Henry ignored that entirely and shifted gears — quite literally.
"Parking lot's just ahead."
They stepped out atop Mount Lee. From here, the fenced-off sign sat just down the slope.
"Is this the radio station?" Bobbi asked, scanning the cluster of utility buildings and antennas.
"That's right. I checked on the way up — the gate's locked. So we either climb illegally or enjoy the view from here."
Bobbi quickly got out on her own before Henry could circle around to open the door — relaxed enough around him that she no longer waited for formalities.
Together they walked to the railing at the edge of the lot. From here, they could see the tops of the giant white letters.
Henry pointed down. "Most people never realize this: the nine letters are built at the same elevation — but not in a straight horizontal line. If you flew past in a helicopter at the same height, the word would look perfectly flat. But from below, the uneven slope of the hill makes them appear staggered."
Bobbi leaned forward, fascinated.
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