My friends Natasha and Mimi and I were tired of getting ghosted on the dating apps. A year after I moved from Miami to L.A., I felt as if the only way to meet someone for real in this city was to go out.
So off we went to the rooftop bar at the W Hotel in Hollywood for jazz night. Surely, we’d meet sophisticated men there.
Eager to make some new connections, we spotted three guys by the bar. Perfect! Natasha, who was the fearless one of our group, walked right up to them and asked the one guy who looked like a Hollywood model if he had a lighter. He did, and just like that, we had our in.
The friend next to Mr. Hollywood was different. He had long curly hair and was easy on the eyes. He didn’t seem to be putting up a front. He introduced himself as Wes and said he had arrived that same day from Michigan by train. He planned to sleep on his friend’s couch until he found a job in L.A. I immediately judged him as one of those American free-spirited backpackers — or, what my Venezuelan father would call a hippie.
I was not interested in him. Although I was unemployed myself, I still had higher standards. But I had to admit that Wes was cute.
When he asked for my name and where I was from, I said, “Laura,” pronouncing it the American way, “Loh-ruh.” And I explained I was born in Venezuela, but raised in Miami.
Wes looked at me, confused. “Wait, isn’t it pronounced ‘Loud-ah’?” he asked.
No gringo had ever said my name perfectly in Spanish before.
I explained to him that when I came to this country as a 7-year-old, everyone at school just called me “Loh-ruh” because they didn’t know how to say it in Spanish. I hated it, but eventually got used to it.
Wes said, “If you learned to pronounce people’s names in English, you should teach them how to say your name in Spanish. It’s a beautiful name.” He told me to explain it by saying the “R” in Laura should sound like the “T” in water. Or even easier: Just say “louder” without the “-er” at the end like “Lou-dah.”
Immediately charmed, I asked how he knew, and he said he spoke fluent Spanish. He’d been interested since childhood and had just spent a year teaching English in Ecuador, so his Spanish was extra fresh — and, I might add, kinda sexy.
My interest was piqued. As I opened up to him about my dreams of becoming a comedian and how hard it was to live away from my family in Miami, I could tell he was really listening.
He then shared stories about playing college football, spending six months in India studying philosophy and his passion for social injustice. I slowly found myself wanting — no, needing — to see him again.
Who cared if he didn’t have a job and was sleeping on Mr. Hollywood’s couch. Who was I to judge? Besides, he had arrived in L.A. that very day!
For the first time, I met a guy who wasn’t playing any games. He was smart, down-to-earth and cute, and I think he liked me. But I still wasn’t completely sure; I couldn’t tell if he liked me or was just being super nice to me. You never know with guys who aren’t throwing themselves at you, something I liked.
I teased Wes about whether he could dance salsa, and he replied — perhaps a little too confidently — that he could.
I told him that if I were to believe him, he’d have to meet me at La Descarga on North Western Avenue to prove it. I loved dancing salsa, and I wanted to see how he fared. I lied and said my friends and I were planning to go next Wednesday. He laughed and accepted the challenge, and we exchanged numbers.
In the Uber ride home, I told my friends that we had to go to La Descarga on Wednesday. Natasha said, “Sorry, babe, Wednesday’s my birthday, and I wanna go to Good Times at Davey Wayne’s.” I tried to change her mind, to no avail. Oh well, he might not even call, I thought.
A couple of days later, after finding him on Facebook, I was ecstatic when he finally reached out. Scrolling through his pictures reminded me of how cute he was. Wes texted me that he was excited to show off his salsa skills. I nervously replied that there had been a slight change of plans and asked him if he could disco as well as salsa. After a few minutes of excruciating silence, he texted back: “Yeah!”
High on anticipation, I arrived at Davey Wayne’s and immediately downed a shot. A year of dating in L.A. turned me into a pessimist, so I tried not to count all the ways this could go wrong — like, what if he doesn’t show up? What if he’s an awkward dancer? That would be such a turnoff. My mind was racing.
Then he walked in. His hair was tied up in a bun, which made him even hotter. After mingling with my friends and singing happy birthday to Natasha, he asked if I wanted to dance. Nervously, I nodded my head yes.
On the dance floor, not only could he dance, but he was super smooth with it! When Anita Ward’s “Ring My Bell” came on, with one swift move, Wes twirled, dipped and kissed me. My bell had been rung. I knew at that moment I wasn’t letting this gringo go. Nine years later, we’re still dancing and, funny enough, I became a Venezuelan free-spirited backpacker traveling the world with him.
The author is an actor and writer based in L.A., originally raised in the 305. She lives in Los Feliz with her husband, Wes. She’s on Instagram: @lauradi.lorenzo.
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This story originally appeared on LA Times
