It was Sunday morning. I shivered from the rain and entered John O’Groats on Pico Boulevard. The owner greeted me as I headed for a seat at the crowded counter. A few of the regulars nodded in my direction.
I was four months past the bruising crash of a long-distance romance, armed with a new vow: No more cross-country heartbreak. While the ex-love of my life was back with her ex-beau in Michigan enjoying Mackinac Island fudge, I was ready to bury all regret and rethink my vow over a fruitless bowl of steel-cut oats.
I had met Renée the previous month during a three-week consulting project in Washington, D.C. The all-consuming emotion of being swept away by a beautiful, intelligent and compassionate person collided with my self-inflicted vow. In the throes of cognitive dissonance, I ignored the vow and fell in love with Renée. I returned to L.A. but only after securing a promise she would visit soon.
Thankfully Renée came to L.A. for a week-long work assignment. Our plan was simple: After breakfast, I would meet her at her hotel, and together we would spend the day exploring the sights and experiences that L.A. had to offer.
I scanned nearby tables for friends but was distracted by a woman quickening her pace toward the only available stool at the counter. Renée? What is she doing here? A man with a cane, a few steps ahead of her, tapped a steady claim to the prize. She slowed her walk, resigned to a second-place finish and nowhere to sit. Her lips pressed in a rueful grin.
The man next to me dropped a $5 tip on the counter and walked away. I waved to get Renée’s attention and gestured to the empty seat. We exchanged surprised smiles as she approached, hugged me, and said, “I missed you. The concierge recommended O’Groats. I’m ready to explore L.A.”
“I missed you too. What’s on your must-see list?” I replied.
“I’d like to see Malibu, the Sunset Strip and … here, the concierge gave me this.” I examined the handwritten sightseeing list. I said it was a good list, but it missed a few of my favorite places. Our final list included the Petersen Automotive Museum — we both had fathers who passed on to us their love of classic cars — Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Malibu and dinner at Geoffrey’s.
“If you can still put up with me,” I said, “we can cruise the Sunset Strip and Hollywood Boulevard tonight.”
We finished breakfast and drove to the Petersen. Upon entering, we were met by a fleet of vintage Corvettes and a row of charcuterie boards. We barely touched the hors d’oeuvres while drooling over the cars. When we walked across the street toward LACMA, it was nearly 3 p.m.
Amid intermittent raindrops, we were talking about cars from the ’60s when Renée stopped walking. Standing 10 yards in front of us on a corner of Wilshire Boulevard and Fairfax Avenue was a shivering elderly woman who looked lost. Renée quickened her pace and approached the woman. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t … I’m not sure this is … ” Her speech was hesitant, halting. Renée coaxed a complete sentence. “I want to go home.” She whispered an address.
Renée looked at me and said, “Let’s bring her home.”
We drove a short distance to the address, where an anxious 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 toward the corner where we had approached the lost 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 canapés and see Corvettes. We had to help her.”
Until this moment, standing at the corner of one of the busiest intersections in the city, falling in love had always been for me an arduous process.
This, however, was fireworks with dazzling explosions. Time to be bold, I thought. “Let’s skip 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 nearly 5 p.m. when we parked at El Matador State Beach. As we hiked the short distance from Pacific Coast Highway on the rocky switchback trail, she caught glimpses of the sculpted sea stacks rising 50 meters from the sand and shallow waters.
When we reached the beach, Renée was silent. “These towers always take my breath away too,” I said.
She took off her shoes, rolled up her pants and waded into the water. I joined her. The wind and waves whipped around us. At my urging, she closed her eyes. Uneven sandbars lifted and then dropped us in a slow-motion, repetitive dance on the sediment floor. The salty seawater splashed our faces beneath a salmon-colored sky.
We skipped Geoffrey’s, Hollywood and the Sunset Strip. I drove back to her hotel. We kissed goodnight and made plans to visit those places the next evening without the ocean-soaked clothes.
Confession: All of this happened more than 30 years ago. Renée and I are happily married and live in L.A. The iconic landmarks we visited all those years ago are, thankfully, still here. We have done our best to revisit them each year on our wedding anniversary with one modification — we bring bathing suits and towels.
The author, who was born and raised in L.A., is a retired HR consultant and executive coach. His debut novel, “Coyote Time,” published by Guernica Editions, will be available in April.
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