Sometimes compatibility develops over long conversations in coffee shops or even on the dance floor. Mine and Fernando's became evident on our seventh date, standing on a dark corner in downtown Los Angeles. After a short flight, a day on Venice Beach, and the fastest glow ever seen by a mother of three, my date spread her hands, sighed, and canceled the glorious evening she had planned. It was supposed to start with a jazz club and end with a late-night sushi bar crawl, until Fernando said, “I feel like a pain.”
I hooked my arm in his and turned toward the empty streets and our sweltering Airbnb.
A few weeks earlier, on one of our first dates, I had told Fernando that I was presenting at a conference in Los Angeles. “You should come with me,” I said half-jokingly.
“Actually?” asked. “You don't know me at all.”
He was right. We were in the educated phase. We bonded over being Seattle transplants: him from the Dominican Republic, me from Florida, but we were still figuring out the basics. I hadn't yet learned that he never touches coffee but that he loves pastries, my least favorite treat. And for me, espresso is a daily requirement.
Fernando did not immediately accept my invitation. We continue dating, playing the question game. “What is your favorite snack?” he asked me.
“Mole tacos,” I said. “What is your biggest flaw?”
“Keep going,” he said. “Yours?”
“I'm annoyingly persistent.”
“Perfect combination,” he said.
The more we talked, the more we realized that our flaws, which made us seem like exact opposites, came from the same root. His father had barely been around during childhood and my father had died when I was a teenager. We both struggled to find agency at times in our adult lives that felt like abandonment. Although we had both been in therapy for years before we met, we also had a hard time dealing with disappointment.
“Maybe we ought “Let’s take this wild journey together,” he said.
“Make or break style,” I said.
When we walked through the door of our Airbnb in downtown Los Angeles after a long, hot day walking along the boardwalk, we had our first chance to face disappointment together.
“I think people really live here,” he said.
“Like it's 2015,” I said.
We had committed before flying to keep things light. If one of us complained, the other was supposed to say something funny. But the apartment was muggy and the surfaces covered in dust. We gushed over the vintage decor while waiting for the water to heat up in a huge clawfoot tub.
Fernando said something about getting in while the shower was still cold, so he could conserve water for the good people of California. I noted the fatherly tone and realized I probably seemed like a waste for resisting the cold draft during a drought.
While I was bathing, he was shaving. Then we change. “I feel shy but not shy,” Fernando said, and I agreed. I wondered if this would be the first of many sweet little moments, or if it would be the only time we would share this kind of intimacy.
We were finally ready for our night on the town, but we only walked six blocks before Fernando turned to me and told me he was too tired to continue any further.
“I owe you,” he said as we walked back, but I was also relieved and relieved that he said it first.
“What if we did something different and called it exciting?” I asked.
We talked about the absolute thrill of ordering takeout in a city that was 30 degrees warmer than the one we both lived in, listing every little thing that was totally amazing around us. All those closed garages that opened in the morning selling fabrics? Gorgeous.
The dark streetlights on the side of the road that made the shadows look like a modern film noir? Fabulous.
The fact that we were about to fall asleep in the same city as dozens of celebrities we both adored? Relatively pointless but still badass.
As we ate our takeout sushi in downtown Los Angeles, I realized I wasn't disappointed at all. My drive to move forward had to do with mission, and our mission had changed. Instead of wooing my new date with a super fancy night on the town, I got the chance to connect with him in a real way.
Our trip to Los Angeles had become a kind of test, much more intense than agreeing on a sofa or building an IKEA bookshelf. We were stuck spending time together without performing, in a strange city, for days.
After showing up at the conference the next morning, Fernando and I moved into a new rental in the Hollywood Hills, where we found endless taco trucks and two speakeasies, Good Times at Davey Wayne's and Adults Only. The only landmark we saw was Muscle Beach, and the only quintessential Los Angeles thing we did was accidentally find ourselves in front of the Last Bookstore an hour before we had to head to the airport, so we spent that hour walking around inside.
“Let's keep traveling,” we said to ourselves on the way home.
Seven years and dozens of trips later, I engraved “I will travel with you” on the inside of our wedding rings. The night before our wedding, we were together in a small bathroom at his sister's house in the Dominican Republic, washing our faces. I looked at him in the mirror. He turned and looked at me. “I'm so glad you invited me to Los Angeles,” he said.
“It was a risk,” I said, “and the best trip of my life.”
The city is not ours, but together it made us who we are.
The author is a journalist and illustrator working on a memoir about Florida. He divides his time between Seattle, Los Angeles and the Deep South. His Instagram is @adjsbb and the website is AshaDore.net.
Los Angeles Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the Los Angeles area, and we want to hear your true story. We paid $400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find shipping guidelines. here. You can find previous columns. here.
