L.A. Affairs: Men who don’t understand L.A. won’t understand me. What’s a city girl to do?
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“I just hate L.A.,” Yassir said. Enveloped in the arms of the man I loved who valued monogamy and proudly introduced me as his girlfriend to every acquaintance, I felt an uneasiness. The statement felt personal — as if he meant to say “you” and swapped it for “L.A.” at the last moment.
We’re both transplants. Pre-pandemic, he lived in Hollywood for a couple of years, made the typical person-in-entertainment move to New York and returned to L.A. for work in late 2023. I arrived in January 2021 and started referring to Los Feliz as home about two weeks later, although I sometimes kept that fact to myself.
Back then, I was quite apologetic in my love for L.A. I worried about appearing a certain way to fellow transplants, my parent’s friends who’d only seen Santa Monica and any New Yorker I came across.
I was terrified of driving. So I had Lyft and Uber, a TAP card and a borderline unhinged love of walking. Then I reunited with a woman, but she lived miles away in Santa Monica.
I wanted to dodge all the stereotypical perceptions about L.A. despite identifying with them. I didn’t want to come off as image-driven, although I find solace in a stroll through the stores at the Americana at Brand, where I zip up skirts in the dressing rooms and spritz perfumes at the makeup counters.
I also didn’t want to be viewed as health-obsessed — I quite literally buy into Pilates classes and performance running shoes. Or be labeled a workaholic — I don’t relax easily and often conflate my worth to my productivity. Or be accused of being a film snob — I’ll skip a party in favor of a 35mm screening of a movie I’ve already seen.
Early in our courtship, Yassir spoke romantically of New York’s late-night diners and constant goings-on. I felt jealous, as if he were reminiscing about an ex.
After we swapped college grievances and grocery shopping habits, a text exchange between us pivoted to his adoration for New York and his contempt for L.A.
Instead of skating over the topic or conceding to his opinion, I texted, “I understand L.A. has many faults, but I love it. And this is something you need to know about me, I am very good at loving and figuring out how to love.”
I was trying to finish law school and keep my head above water in Los Angeles. Did I really have time for romance?
It was a conclusion I had been circling for quite some time. As a 27-year-old, I’m still learning who I am and how I go about the world, but I’m improving. This was one of those personal truths that after voicing it to someone else solidifies its verity — and all in the name of Los Angeles.
He responded, “Huge green flag.” Just like my friends, my family and Los Angeles, Yassir benefited from this trait of mine.
I found him incredibly gorgeous. My industrious demeanor ceased on the mornings I spent with him. I just wanted to run my hands through his dark, curly hair and explain what the words of Los Angeles champion Eve Babitz meant to me. But I also looked up to him. Yassir spoke with cadence and clarity, enunciating all the syllables of “definitely,” a word he said quite often. And he was definite about the world, especially Los Angeles. As a television writer, the city gave him much more opportunity and money than it ever offered me, and he still hated it.
I felt like a child showing off an art project whenever I introduced him to my favorite places in L.A. Over eggs and waffles, I’d say, “Isn’t this restaurant amazing?” Or gesturing with my arms wide on a hilltop, “This view of Griffith Observatory is pretty spectacular, right?” I said these things as if I were asking, “Aren’t I amazing?” and “Isn’t looking at me next to a bougainvillea spectacular?”
His answers were always courteous smiles. I should have known.
A 40-ton whale surfaced beside me in the Pacific Ocean as I was paddleboarding. I named her Molly. That moment changed my life, especially when it came to love.
He broke up with me last fall after several months of dating, citing differences regarding our outlook on life. He specifically said I see the world with too much sunshine. Definitely too L.A.
I partook in my usual breakup agenda. I made my heartbreak Beachwood Canyon’s problem, walking and weeping to Amy Winehouse’s ballad, “Tears Dry (Original Version),” on the streetlamp-lined sidewalks. I went to my friend’s couches in Highland Park, Los Feliz and Palms to cry a bit more. And I sat on my own couch, another “Sex and the City” rewatch before me.
But it was the words of a New Yorker, albeit a fictional one, that indicated my romantic path going forward.
Episode 1 of Season 5 of “Sex and the City” is titled “Anchors Away.” It’s the first in the series in a post-9/11 world. In a nod to the show’s fifth main character, New York City, Carrie Bradshaw spends the day reckoning with her love for a city that often tests her spirit. However, after a potential love interest dismisses New York, Carrie catches a taxi away and muses: “If … you only get one great love, New York may just be mine. And I can’t have nobody talking s— about my boyfriend. … Maybe the past is like an anchor holding us back. Maybe you have to let go of who you were to become who you will be.”
With the devastating L.A. County fires following shortly after my breakup and the “city as a great love” breakthrough, I decided to love Los Angeles more openly, especially in my dating life.
As is expected in the who/what/when/where of first dates, the question “How do you like L.A.?” always arises. After Yassir, the men I’ve encountered often shrug their shoulders in a “whatever” manner. Brunettes, blonds, mustached, clean-shaven, my patio-bar dates don’t seem to get it, and their answers have alarmed me — their apathy almost as alarming as outright hate.
L.A. Affairs is a first-person column in the Los Angeles Times chronicling romance and relationships. We are looking for original essays. Here’s how to send us yours.
How could a person feel indifferent toward a place so dynamic, so capable, so beautiful and so funny in its ways? A place with a history so lush it would take a lifetime to learn how we got here? Perhaps my similarities to L.A. don’t end with the city’s stereotypes.
Men who don’t understand Los Angeles will never understand me, and for that, they’re unworthy of my deftness at loving.
That’s quite all right. I have a boyfriend anyway.
This author is a freelance culture and lifestyle writer. She has written for The Times, A Rabbit’s Foot, Little White Lies and other publications. She proudly lives in Los Angeles, and Franklin Avenue is her favorite street. She also runs a Substack: babydancer.substack.com.
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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