Another LA weekend

Friday night found me sitting at a small cruddy table (endearingly cruddy!) outside a divey sushi joint on the corner of Santa Monica and Barrington. Inside it was suffocatingly hot and so my date and I decided to make do with the small glass table out front, me on a bench and him on a chair and a tall bottle of unfiltered cold sake between us. Evening traffic sauntered by and a crowd of hungry customers gathered near us to wait for a table. The night was cool and fresh and divine.

We took turns making toasts.

He is tall with piercing blue eyes and the confidence and brass of an east coaster. He talks with his hands, loud and opinionated: the perfect sales man. The problem is I am just as opinionated and outspoken and confident and when I turned him down for a drink, the first time (it happened twice), he told me: I’m not used to being rejected. You’re a hard close.

Fast forward two hours and we’re at a different joint; a new neighborhood gastro pub on the western edge of Brentwood. I think I’m clever because I’ve decided to carry my four-inch heels and wear flip flops for the walking portions of the night. We sit at the corner of the bar and talk food with the owner until we shut the place down. We wax poetic the myriad ways to fix edamame; the ache when a sauce breaks; they exchange gossip over the owners of some of the best restaurants in Los Angeles. The owner pours me glass after glass of wine and in between it all, my date and I bicker, laugh, bicker, laugh. It gets late and he stubbornly says, “Okay, I’m either taking you home or we’re going dancing.” The nerve! I peer down at my delicate flip flops, consider my 7 a.m. hiking plans, and say, “Then I’m going home.”

I do get up at 7 a.m. to hike Griffith Park (no joke in the heat of the hills with a malbec hangover) and from the top, I can see the Hollywood sign, Griffith Observatory, the golf courses, the zoo and more. After, he and I talk on the phone.

“What’s wrong with us?” I say. “Why can’t we just relax.”

“We’re two bulls in a pen,” he replies. “You’re stubborn and I’m stubborn and neither of us will ever back down.”

“It’s kinda funny.” We laugh. “You called me a square last night! That’s hilarious!”

The rest of the weekend was taken up by four hours at my hair salon, an additional night of sushi and drinks in Brentwood and then Sunday night at Tongue and Groove at Hotel Café in old school Hollywood. It was the first time I’ve gone to see a live poetry and spoken word performance, pretty damn cool.

It’s soft summer now and being outside in any fashion is an absolute pleasure. Running errands and driving west towards the beach with the windows down; lounging outside my favorite coffee shop with the sun gracing my shoulders; this morning’s walk around the country club and through the farmers market.

The entire city glows, an electric bohemia.