Does “hopeless romantic” mean that you cannot help but be romantic? That’s my impression. Could it be instead that you have no shot at ever being very good at it? Asking for a friend.
My life posture is to invest in the community I find myself in, which is far less complicated if you do not move around the country every couple of years. It is difficult leaving people and places that you love, but fully investing in a new community means, for me at least, that I cannot devote too much attention to the rearview mirror. Being wistful for days gone by can be debilitating, but every once in a while, a thought will sneak in from the past that makes me wistful anyway.
Somewhere in our North American tour after leaving Los Angeles in 2019, I’m sure it was around Valentine’s Day, I got all wistful when remembering a tradition that I developed while here in the City of Angels when I would get up even earlier than normal on Valentine’s Day, beat the crazy traffic to Downtown L.A., and snag a parking spot near the Los Angeles Flower District. The Flower District advertises “a spectacular and unequaled array of the freshest flowers, greens and fillers available, many of them California grown, along with an impressive, overwhelming selection of floral supplies.” All I know is that they have a heck of a lot of flowers and that I felt the strong need to go there each year and buy my wife roses for Valentine’s Day.
I understand that you can order flowers in many ways that are far more convenient than driving to Downtown Los Angeles, but I found that I really missed the inconvenient approach. Getting up extra early was never a problem on those occasions. There was something about the experience itself that made it wonderfully worthwhile. Not the shopping or purchasing process so much (actually, I was always utterly confused while there), but the whole idea just felt special.
This year, on our first Valentine’s Day since moving back to L.A., I knew what I had to do.
I arrived at the Flower District at 5:52am on Valentine’s Eve, utilized what appeared to be a legal parking space, and stepped into the craziness. As expected, I was soon overwhelmed. It was dark and yet colorful, and I felt like I joined a swarm of ants attacking an unattended slice of red velvet cake but that I was the only ant unaware of where I was going. I noticed lots of duos carrying long, Christmas-tree-sized cardboard boxes, and they definitely knew where they were going. I’m not sure who all was represented in the swarm, but I assume wholesalers and vendors, small business owners and growers, and maybe even silly husbands like me, although I can’t be sure. I simply wandered in and out of shops, deflecting all the can-i-help-yous until I saw what I wanted, which was news to me, too.
Was I supposed to barter? Well, I didn’t. The price quoted was less than what I would have paid ordering those flowers from the comfort of anywhere other than in-person in Downtown Los Angeles, so I just handed over the cash. Thankfully, I am freakishly tall; otherwise, getting out of the chaos carrying a large vase of roses might have been even more eventful, but by 6:16am, I was back in my car and on the road, driving home one-handed to protect my floral purchase through the burgeoning automotive ant swarm.
I made it home an hour later and proudly presented the roses to my wife, who smiled and laughed the sort of laugh that says, “I am married to a certifiable idiot, but I think he must really love me.”
Which was the reaction I hoped for.
To be candid, I don’t think I am a hopeless romantic under either definition. I like to think of myself more as a hopeful romantic—hopeful that I will be better at it along the way.
Given such a goal, I am glad to be reunited with the Flower District.
Starting to Look Up 