L.A. Affairs: He brought paper bags on our date. ‘We may need these if we hyperventilate’
He handed me a brown paper bag — mind you, just a regular lunch-size kraft paper bag that was still flat and folded — and in all seriousness said, “Just in case you need it.”
Turning to look at him — an almost-stranger I was about to embark on a coffee date with — I asked, “Is this in case I get nauseated?”
“That too,” he grinned sheepishly. “But I was thinking something more like this ...”
On our very first date, I was eating from his plate. Could he be the one I’ve been looking for, especially after having a series of bad dates with other guys?
As his voice trailed off, I watched wide-eyed as he pulled out a paper bag, snapped it open, covered his mouth and forced it to open and closed with controlled breathing. “We’re both so nervous,” he explained matter-of-factly. “We may need these if we hyperventilate.”
Like a released champagne cork, laughter exploded and bubbled over, and the chemistry in the car changed from frigid temps to cozy and comfortable. We chatted like old friends as we hopped on the 57 freeway headed to the Orange Circle, where we talked over coffee at the Pie Hole, strolled with our hands stuffed in our pockets and planted the beginning seeds of friendship.
I had recently muddled through a marathon seven-year divorce that left me shattered and devastated, and my family, friends and children knew that I would never date again — and without a doubt, I’d never get married. I had only agreed to go to coffee because I knew of him through our 19-year-old boys. Their inseparable friendship during their junior high years had caused our paths to cross. We shared numerous drop-offs and pickups as I mustered through divorce paperwork and he navigated a grief-stricken home with the death of his wife.
But now, years later, as he walked me to the door, he asked, “Can I see you again?”
On our second date, he took me to “The Sound of Music” at La Mirada Theatre for the Performing Arts. Tears streamed down my face the whole night because of his cologne and my allergies. When we said goodbye at the door, I cautiously admitted, “I don’t think I can see you again. I’m terribly allergic to you.”
Surprised, he said, “I thought you were moved by the singing!” That night he texted me a photo of a hammer crushing his cologne bottle.
I was 13 years old — old enough to have started noticing girls. But the idea of true love was still abstract to me. Then I met the one. How could I get her attention?
A few days later, we strolled by the Muckenthaler Cultural Center in Fullerton and heard live music floating through the park. Our curiosity got the best of us, and we rambled onto the grounds to find an intimate wedding reception taking place in the courtyard below. Suddenly, he grabbed my hand, and we were dancing under the moonlight while the trees twinkled with floating bulbs and antique street lamps lit up as if on cue. It was as if we were on the set of “La La Land” — something magical and unforgettable. This was the night he said he fell in love with me.
As partners in crime, we began planning surprise adventures for each other over the course of two years: an enchanted night walk through the botanical gardens of Palos Verdes; a day trip to San Francisco to eat at Red’s Java House and watch the Giants play ball; ice skating at the Hotel del Coronado in San Diego and a caroling trolley ride; “The Lion King” at the Pantages in Hollywood; dinner downtown at Perch prior to the closing performance of “Peter Pan Goes Wrong” with Neil Patrick Harris at the Ahmanson Theatre; a day at the Getty Villa in Pacific Palisades; and an enchanting dinner in a private cabana at the Firefly in Studio City.
So it was no surprise when he texted, “Are you available all day on Sept. 21?”
I wrote back, “It’s my day off. Absolutely!”
He arrived early and whisked me off to the Huntington Library, Art Museum, and Botanical Gardens in San Marino. We spent hours lingering in the Chinese gardens, eating in the glass tea house and gazing over the koi-filled pond. We strolled through rose gardens, exhibitions and the never-ending gift shop. By the time 3 p.m. came around, we collapsed satisfied and exhausted on a shaded park bench.
“We can call it a day if you like,” I said, yawning. “It’s already been amazing.”
Love was waiting in line for me. Yes, it was — at Los Angeles International Airport. I was catching a flight to New Jersey when I met Mr. Right. Could I make this last?
According to my event coordinator, the day was just getting started. Our next stop was Culver City, where he gave me a music box that played “Edelweiss.” It was a clue to our next destination: the Hollywood Bowl for “Rodgers & Hammerstein’s The Sound of Music Sing-A-Long.” But first we had to eat at Lustig, an Austrian restaurant where we ordered schnitzel with noodles (otherwise known as spaetzle), sausages and a bowl of divine butternut squash soup recommended by our uber-friendly waiter.
At the Hollywood Bowl, we hissed at the Baroness, booed at the Nazis and shot off confetti poppers when Maria got her first kiss. When Captain von Trapp sang “Edelweiss” to his children, the whole amphitheater joined their voices together, flooding the Hollywood Hills with a surprisingly heartwarming sound of music.
I fell asleep contentedly on the drive home but awoke as we pulled into our favorite spot at the Muckenthaler.
“You want to take a walk?” he asked. Sleepily I followed him to a picnic bench glowing amber in the lantern light.
“I want to give you the same gift I gave you on our very first date ….”
To live and cry in L.A. is what I say. But I don’t hate L.A. I love it. Unfortunately, things in my life are going through a rough patch, including my relationship with my husband of 10 years.
Puzzled, I challenged him: “You didn’t give me a gift on our very first date.”
Slowly he handed me a brown paper bag — mind you, just a regular lunch-size kraft paper bag, still flat and folded. “Remember this?” he smiled nervously. “I’m guessing you’re going to need it right now.”
And he was right, because at that moment he dropped to one knee.
The author is a librarian for the Fullerton Public Library system. On her days off, she explores new places and embarks on all-day adventures with her partner in crime and newly acquired fiancé. In her spare time, she also enjoys reading, baking, writing, spending time with her family and her latest hobby — planning a wedding and honeymoon.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
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