It was Sunday morning. I shivered in the rain and turned into John O'Groats on Pico Boulevard. The owner greeted me as I walked to a seat at the crowded counter. Some of the regulars nodded in my direction.
Four months had passed since the painful shock of a long-distance romance, armed with a new promise: no more heartbreak across the country. While the former love of my life was back with her ex-boyfriend in Michigan enjoying Mackinac Island fudge, I was ready to bury all regrets and rethink my promise over a fruitless bowl of steel-cut oatmeal.
I had met Renée the previous month during a three-week consulting project in Washington, DC. The all-consuming thrill of being swept away by a beautiful, intelligent, and compassionate person clashed with my self-inflicted vow. In the midst of cognitive dissonance, I ignored the vow and fell in love with Renée. I returned to Los Angeles, but only after securing a promise that she would visit me soon.
Fortunately, Renée came to Los Angeles for a week-long job. Our plan was simple: after breakfast, I would meet her at her hotel and together we would spend the day exploring the places and experiences that Los Angeles had to offer.
I looked for friends at nearby tables, but was distracted by a woman quickening her pace toward the only available stool at the counter. Renee? What is she doing here? A man with a cane, a few steps in front of her, firmly claimed the prize. She slowed her pace, resigned to finishing second and with nowhere to sit. His lips tightened into a sad smile.
The man next to me left a five-dollar tip on the counter and walked away. I waved to get Renée's attention and pointed to the empty seat. We exchanged surprised smiles when she walked up, hugged me, and said, “I missed you. The concierge recommended O'Groats. I'm ready to explore Los Angeles.”
“I missed you too. What's on your must-see list?” I responded.
“I'd like to see Malibu, Sunset Strip and… here, the concierge gave me this.” I examined the handwritten sightseeing list. I said it was a good list, but it left out some of my favorite places. Our final list included the Petersen Automotive Museum (we both had parents who passed on their love of classic cars to us), the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Malibu, and dinner at Geoffrey's.
“If you can still put up with me,” I said, “we can hit the Sunset Strip and Hollywood Boulevard tonight.”
We finished breakfast and headed to the Petersen. Upon entering, we were greeted by a fleet of vintage Corvettes and a row of charcuterie boards. We barely touched the hors d'oeuvres as we drooled over the cars. When we crossed the street to LACMA, it was almost 3 pm.
Between intermittent raindrops, we were talking about cars from the 60s when Renée stopped walking. Standing 10 yards in front of us, on the corner of Wilshire Boulevard and Fairfax Avenue, was a trembling old woman who looked lost. Renée quickened her pace and approached the woman. “Are you OK?”
“No… I'm not sure this is…” Her speech was hesitant, hesitant. Renée managed a complete sentence. “I want to go home.” She whispered an address.
Renée looked at me and said, “Let's take her home.”
We drove a short distance to the address, where an eager man guided the confused woman through the front door. “Mom, where did you go?” He thanked us profusely and Renée and I walked back to my car.
I drove east on Wilshire toward LACMA. We found parking on Fairfax and walked to the corner where we had approached the missing woman.
“That was a beautiful thing you did,” I said.
“We did,” she replied.
“Still, it was you who…”
“Well, once I saw her, I knew we weren't here just to eat hors d'oeuvres and watch Corvettes. We had to help her.”
Until that moment, standing on the corner of one of the busiest intersections in the city, falling in love had always been an arduous process for me.
But these were fireworks with dazzling explosions. Time to be bold, I thought. “Let's leave out the art exhibits and drive to Malibu,” I said. “I want to be with you, the ocean and the setting sun. I know the perfect place.”
It was almost 5 pm when we parked at El Matador State Beach. As we walked the short distance from the Pacific Coast Highway along the curving rocky trail, she caught a glimpse of the sculpted sea stacks rising 50 meters from the sand and shallow water.
When we arrived at the beach, Renée was silent. “These towers always take my breath away,” I said.
He took off his shoes, pulled up his pants and got into the water. I joined her. The wind and waves lashed around us. At my insistence, he closed his eyes. The uneven sandbars lifted and then dropped us in a repetitive, slow-motion dance across the sediment floor. The salt water of the sea splashed on our faces under a salmon-colored sky.
We skipped Geoffrey's, Hollywood and Sunset Strip. I returned to his hotel. We kissed each other goodnight and made plans to visit those places the next night without our ocean-soaked clothes.
Confession: This all happened over 30 years ago. Renée and I are happily married and live in Los Angeles. Fortunately, the iconic places we visited all those years ago are still here. We've done our best to visit again every year on our wedding anniversary with one modification: we bring swimsuits and towels.
The author, who was born and raised in Los Angeles, is a retired human resources consultant and executive coach. His first novel, “coyote time”, published by Ediciones Guernica, will be available in April.
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