After almost 20 years of being lost in L.A., can our organization continue at LACMA?

We were invited to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art Jazz Night by our mutual friends, Rich and Nicole. I, the breakfast queen, bring lots of goodies and drinks from my Sherman Oaks apartment. It was one of my very first forays into the post-COVID-19 vaccine world, and I was more than ready to mix and mingle with people.

Nicole ushered me to the seats in the front, the fancy seats that Alex had reserved when he got there an hour ago on the bus. I said “Hi” and apologized for being late.

“Sorry,” I breathed with a little lip from my new Invisaligns. (I would later learn that Alex thought my orthodontia-induced speech impediment was pretty cute.) “I parked so far away I might as well have been in the valley.”

Alex laughed.

I would soon learn that this die-hard Westsider hadn’t owned a car since his 2001 Cadillac DeVille transmission broke down on the 5 Freeway four years earlier. I walked over to the thimble to bring it to share and saw a woman sitting next to Alex. She smiled at the group. I asked her if she wanted something too.

I thought Alex looked very handsome in his light maroon jacket – the kind perfect for gray May evenings – and one that set off his blonde hair. But I saw a smiling woman and they were together.

The next two hours were full of chatter between sets: Nicole’s end-of-school frenzy, Rich Musician’s thoughts on those sweet drum riffs and where we should all go for fun afterwards. Grove or Canter? Alex and I sat on opposite sides of our row. I passed the snacks and after a while I noticed that the woman who was sitting next to him was no more.

Maybe, it wasn’t his girlfriend. Could it be that he was unrelated?

After the concert, we walked down Fairfax Avenue. I learned that Alex was originally from Long Island, NY, and asked him to break the accent like “The Sopranos.” He gave me an assumed “Fahgidabuddhi”. As a Midwest transplant, I found this interesting. We stopped for ice cream at Wanderlust.

Conversation was easy. After all, we had each known Rich and Nicole for years. However, Alex and I never met at friends’ parties or birthday parties. We’ll look back and maybe recount our nearly 20 years in Los Angeles later. At one point, he was staying at a motel just a five-minute walk from my first apartment near Hollywood Boulevard and Western Avenue.

Can we run into each other at nearby Ralphs? Maybe it wasn’t the right time – until now.

The next month, the four of us met for another jazz club and then went to Wanderlust. A few weeks later, I got a text from Alex asking if we should continue to the jazz club while Rich and Nicole were on their honeymoon.

It was the year after my self-proclaimed, yes-isolation, and I promised myself to be more open to saying yes to things. I messaged him back: Yes!

I wasn’t sure if it was a date, but I packed a summer picnic bag full of delicious snacks and headed back up the hill into Mid-Wilshire. When I got there, Alex had reserved two seats, and I realized it would just be the two of us for two hours of jazz. I offered him a Trader Joe’s drink and reminded myself that I was now in my 40s and it was okay to just be me. With a backdrop of these sweet drum riffs and some liquid courage, Alex and I shared how we both ended up in L.A. It turned out that we were both looking for a new way of life—one that wasn’t previously known to us back home.

After the concert, we headed to our usual spot but then opted to make a new memory at the original farmers market, where we ordered a few coffees and donuts before Bob’s Coffee and Donuts closed.

As I sat on the dining stool, butterflies began to emerge.

We walked back to our car, and I offered him a ride. He refused, but I couldn’t understand how he could go home so late at night. (Two years later, I would also choose to live Alex’s car-free life.)

In my teacher’s voice, I insisted.

He got into the car and stretched the seat, his 6-foot-2 frame stretched like an accordion. I impatiently asked him to give me my night driving glasses. “I don’t know where they are,” he said calmly.

I was already so comfortable with him that I forgot we didn’t know each other yet. As I opened the glove box, our hands lightly brushed each other, and there was a moment of passion. At his request, I dropped him off near La Cienega and Santa Monica boulevards. He would take the number 4 bus home, which would run all night on Santa Monica Boulevard, and I would walk the canyon back up the hill to my place.

We said our goodbyes when we saw the sedan make a left and stop in the median. Never have a dull moment outside of the West.

Our second date at the Getty Summer Concert was followed by a third date at Sophie Stadium, where the Red Hot Chili Peppers sang our song: “Sometimes I feel like I don’t have a friend / Sometimes I feel like my only friend is the city I live in, the city of Angels / Lonely as I am, together we cry.”

As we kissed, I knew it was going to be something special, a gift that only LA could offer.

The author lives in the West with her boyfriend Alex. They are car-free and still take the No. 4 bus to the Jazz Club at LACMA every summer.

Further matters The search for romantic love in all its glorious manifestations in the LA area is making history, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 per published article. email [email protected]. You can find delivery instructions here over here. You can find the previous columns over here.