"Love in Santa Monica "
My brother has been in town for the last two weeks. For those of you who don't know, my brother is the troublemaker of the Parisi family. A 5'6" frame all packed with testosterone, Marine Corp swagger and Italian good looks. We have been out every night. I can't keep that kind of social pace any longer.
Somebody get me some Geritol.
Still, it's been fun. Last weekend, Ken and I visited Venice Beach and hung out at the 3rd Street Promenade in Santa Monica. Sunday we rode the downhill trails at Snow Summit.
Ken saw a very tan and very attractive Euro-woman sunbathing topless at the beach, and then he met rap music artist Tone Loc at Yankee Doodles. All this was just too much for him. Rap stars and bare boobies. Throw in some firearms and high explosives and you have every Marine's dream weekend. I think he is planning to move to LA.
Oh yeah, and I fell in love.
Remember that see-her-from-across-a-crowded-room kind of love? That for-a-split-second-the-world-stood-still kind of love? That why-am-I-no-longer-breathing kind of love? When you are 17, this kind of thing happens almost weekly. Ten years later, it's quite rare but still just as profound.
I saw her at the Promenade, and she nearly stopped my heart. Beige baggy pants, lycra tank top, tan skin, green inquisitive eyes, shoulder length brown hair, petite and athletic.
As far as I was concerned, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Not in a supermodel way. She was beautiful in an elegant, earthy, and exotic way. An oh-my-God-who-is-that-every-nerve-in-my-body-is-standing-on-end-I-must-meet-that girl-right-now kind of way.
After I remembered I had legs, I went chasing after her. I'm not exactly sure what I blubbered to her, but it must have been charming enough for her to keep from calling for help to stop this starry-eyed psychopath from accosting her.
Her name was Marcia and she was from Brazil, spending the summer in LA to learn English. She was 24, and in LA for just 3 more weeks - although she hopes to return next year to attend UCLA.
Although she was flattered, blushing and amused, I was unsuccessful at convincing her to marry me right then (maybe I should have just asked her for coffee). Perhaps I should have tried harder (begging isn't too masculine), but there is a fine line between a charming romantic pursuit and a restraining order. Still, I couldn't have lived the rest of my life knowing I had let her pass me by without trying. And this I told her.
I hadn't experienced love at first sight since high school - still a rush. It's good to know that beneath all my cynical, GenX, urban scar-tissue and thick emotional calluses I still have at least some of that romantic Italian blood.
And I can still fall in love - if only for a few minutes in Santa Monica.
