I met my husband reluctantly. He had been in Los Angeles for a short time and was keeping me busy with the California lifestyle he had always dreamed of. With my doctorate in audiology, I had my first real job in the profession he had studied for many years. I also had my own apartment, with a complex pool surrounded by palm trees. I even bought a convertible that could travel with the top down year-round.
Having come from Canada, where winter is the most important season, being in Southern California felt more like a vacation than real life.
My weekdays were work days, so I decided to settle near my office in Santa Clarita. I had the dream trip. I was on the radio for two songs from my front door to the office. Plus, Santa Clarita provided the perfect springboard for exploring Southern California on the weekends. It was a quick walk to the beach on 126. Or I could go north to wine country or the desert or mountains, depending on my mood or the weather.
I was single and excited to take advantage of all that California had to offer. He wasn't looking for love or a boyfriend. I loved dating and was excited to try it in Southern California.
My brother, who previously lived in Huntington Beach, kept bugging me about going south to hang out with a house full of friends – in Orange County!
Driving two hours south through Los Angeles, through traffic, to visit a noisy house of people I didn't know didn't seem desirable, especially when I had so much of California to explore.
Therefore, the “open invitation” remained unanswered.
That is, until my brother came to visit me. At his insistence and promise to drive, we headed south to Fountain Valley House. We arrived late Friday night and pulled up in front of a house much larger than I expected. The house, as I later learned, had an ever-changing cast of characters as its occupants' jobs or relationships changed. It was common to have guests or semi-permanent company parked on the couch.
Even the large master closet was not empty. It had been repurposed as a bedroom for one of the more permanent roommates.
The peak season was winter. Many of the actual roommates had friends or future roommates from the northern states (guests who wouldn't leave once they came to visit) who were looking to escape those snowy climes.
I am not (or was not?) someone who believes in love at first sight, but I remember the big wooden door opening that first night and I saw Kirk for the first time. I love meeting new people but I have never had a connection like the one I have with him before. He was attentive, honest and intellectual. He had previously lived in the house and moved in with a friend in his apartment. After they broke up, he moved back into this crazy house.
He was in the kitchen, casually lounging on the kitchen island, wearing a striped zip-up hoodie that he still wears to this day.
For some reason, time stopped. That night she didn't know what we would become. She just knew it was different from anything she had ever experienced. We clicked. Although she immediately took an interest in me, she knew where I lived and didn't believe a relationship with me would go anywhere.
But I knew better.
After all, we had a lot in common. My brother and Kirk are pilots and ride motorcycles, so I was familiar with their hobbies and interests. He also loved cars and I had just bought my convertible. Our first real date was asking him to go for a drive and show me around. From that moment on, he became my new Los Angeles tour guide.
The two-hour trip I didn't want to take became the trip we both voluntarily took, almost every weekend for five years. It was 70 miles one way and the traffic could be a beast. If I went south, the traffic was even worse and I left on Sunday night, which cut into our time together. Goodbyes were the worst and we began to feel sad on Sunday afternoons. Even though we technically lived in Greater Los Angeles, it was nearly impossible to get together on a weeknight and get back to work on time the next day.
If we felt like socializing, I headed south. The Fountain Valley House was like a fraternity house.
There was always someone willing to go out or a party already planned at the venue. Mattress rides up the grand entrance staircase were common, as were fire spins, juggling, and unicycle rides.
The house was at times a literal circus, as many of the regular household members were competitive unicyclists. If solitude was what we needed and we were craving a relaxing weekend, we would head north to Santa Clarita.
We walked the surrounding hills, drank wine, and cooked quiet meals together. We would have Thai food delivered to the communal hot tub. (We were the only ones using it). Instead of a hangover brunch at the Sugar Shack Cafe in Huntington Beach, we made pancakes together and packed a picnic for a day of bocce ball at the local park.
No matter where we ended up, the weekends were wonderful. “But is this real life?” I asked myself as I did all the laundry, shopped and cleaned during the week and did absolutely nothing productive on the weekends.
With 70 miles between us, Kirk wanted to receive daily phone calls to stay in touch, but as someone who hates talking on the phone, this was a real test for our relationship.
Fortunately, we wanted to experience life together more than just endless, magical, surreal weekends. We got engaged and then we got married. Best of all, my husband moved north, and while we still love exploring Los Angeles, we can now share a quiet meal together, any day of the week.
The author is a writer and audiologist from Winnipeg, Canada. He lives in Santa Clarita and still tries not to do laundry on the weekends. She can be contacted at [email protected].
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