My mother had always admonished me to go out with good Jewish girls. Otherwise, I could fall in love with someone who didn't.
When I moved to Los Angeles, I'm sure he thought he had come to the perfect place. Living in Fairfax Avenue, I was in the ideal neighborhood to meet a Jewish woman and not far from where my newly married parents lived 40 years before.
But this was not the same city, and I had different plans for me. I started my search seriously, unlimited by faith, inside a small radio that grew on the road.
During Friday night's jazz at the Los Angeles County Museum, I met Katrina, a scarce blond who had recently emigrated from Russia. During a Korean barbecue dinner at the Boulevard Cienega, he talked about his fiance, explaining that a commitment to her meant something different from what he did for me, which gave me hope.
He also mentioned that he loved Sunday's rope quartets that served in the museum. Interestingly, I also developed an interest in them. I visited Sunday several times, but I never saw Katrina again.
Speaking of art, I met Jill while admiring the collection in a gallery in Rodeo Drive where he worked. She told me she was handsome and had a beautiful voice. It seemed a bit like Vanessa Williams. We exchange numbers. I wanted to invite her, but soon I realized that I just wanted me to buy a painting.
A friend introduced me to Curious Stephanie at an event in Little Tokyo. After one of our dates, it took me to a video rental store (yes, this was before transmitting) and made me see a gay porn movie to watch at home. It was not an aphrodisiac.
After laughing and hiding his eyes behind a pillow, he slept on the couch. I slipped, returned the movie and headed home. And that was the last movie we saw together, homosexuals or heterosexuals.
I met Daniella at a party for my friend's parents at her childhood in Baldwin Hills. There were many people and a lot of food and music. While giving me around the backyard, Daniella approached, dancing. Dale gave me a look that said I also needed to dance. She was the caregiver of Dale's old father, and in her free time, a Michael Jackson imitator. She gave me her number, and we agreed to meet again later.
He had to meet after midnight, when Dale's father was asleep and returned at 6 in the morning one night, I arrived around 12:30 am and waited. Twenty minutes later, it emerged with a purple wig to the waist, straight hair. I led to the Santa Monica dock, where we walked and talked all night. Surprisingly, there were many others doing the same.
I returned it before dawn and went home and slept. When I woke up, I was quite sure that a Michael Jackson imitator who took the purple wig was not my guy.
I saw Alisha at an electoral party at the Biltmore hotel. We knew each other from the university and recognized it. More than 10 years later, it looked the same, beautiful. She also reminded me. Soon we were having lunch in Larchmont, dinner at West Hollywood and films in Beverly Connection. She accompanied me to my company's Christmas party at Biltmore.
He worked as a foreign correspondent for a large network, which had been his dream. That took her around the world, and a few months later, he left in the task. I grabbed there, thinking that an international romance was in process.
After sending me postcards and having phone calls late at night for more than a year, he made it clear: he did not return and our careers “were in different directions.”
Then I met Samantha, a temporary employee in my work. After she left, we began to leave. We listened to Jazz, we drank and dance until we were breath at the BB King's Blues Club in Universal Citywalk, Harvelle's in Santa Monica and Margarita Jones in southern Los Angeles.
I gave him my keys. Sometimes I was waiting for me when I returned from work, and I prepared it. At home near Croww Boulevard, I made pineapple casts from a mixture. She was impressed.
A weekend, I met his mother. We joke about how to call it. “What about Mom?” I said easily, what gave me a look that said: “Never!” They all had a good laugh. Casually or not, the relationship ended shortly after.
A year later, a co -worker introduced me to Carol. Our first appointment was pleasant, but our second appointment was (almost) perfect.
Carol was shining and began to see sparks. He had scored many points for the restaurant. During dinner, I told her that I wanted to push the dishes aside, get on the table and kiss her in front of everyone. Wisely, I didn't. Instead, we kiss outside the restaurant. It was not my best kiss. I tried to find his lips as we walked next to my arm around his shoulders. He stopped, moved me to face her and made me try again.
After that, things only improved. We drank dumb listening to Marty and Elayne at Dresde, we tried to dance swing in the derby and made long walks in Griffith Park.
The matriarch of Carol's family, Halmeoni, did not approve her granddaughter dating someone who was not even Asian, much less a Jew.
The family doctor calmed down. “The Jews are very similar to the Koreans,” he said. “They are educated and successful.” Remembering men in Hancock Park in Gabardines and higher hats on weekends, he added: “And they are excellent dressers.”
From then on, Carol told me that Halmeoni affected me as the “Jewish man.” I did not try to explain that I am not Jasidic, but for another reason that she did not speak English.
Four years after our relationship, we got married in an interreligious ceremony in Altadena, although finding a rabbi to preside over it was not easy. We exchange votes under the Chupá. I broke the glass. We sign our ketubah.
We also incorporate a Korean ceremony. We carry Hanboks, we have tea and bow to Carol's mother. The Korean dancers entertained our guests. Then, one of them made fun of us. “Chuppahs and Kimchi,” he repeated, stunned to have coined a new slogan for multicultural weddings.
Then our daughter arrived, Isabel. For 18 years, she has been the unifying force of our existence. She is a beautiful mixed and interreligious race young woman. He loves eating Kimbap and Tteokboki, earns excellent qualifications at school and has an impeccable fashion sense. She also reads Hebrew, had her batzvah and, like her mother and her dad, she loves to wander around the city.
My mother did not live enough to see that all this happened, but although I broke some basic rules, I think I would be satisfied with how everything worked.
The author is a writer and a lobbyist for a commercial association. Live in Los Angeles. Is on Facebook in Facebook.com/richardlaezman.
Los Angeles Affairs Chronices The search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the Los Angeles area, and we want to listen to their real history. We pay $ 400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find presentation guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
