Public Displays of Affection

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It's springtime in Los Angeles, and the Urban Man has gone looking for public displays of affection. You know, hands slipped into hands during sidewalk strolls, quick pecks on cheeks by couples seated in restaurant booths.

People like to say that L.A. is not a romantic town. They claim we're more interested in entertaining than relating. They say we overly enjoy the emotional safety of our bucket seats.

And I have to admit that even though we are daily surrounded by enormous images of affection, Angelenos do seem strangely awkward in its actual presence. We do tend to stand off, just a little.

I mean, if you walk down a street in Paris or London or even New York, couples seem, well, more into each other. They gaze into one another's eyes, they grapple on public benches.

The Urban Man tries to stay optimistic about love in L.A. Each spring, for example, I wait for those purple flowers to appear on the jacaranda trees. They bring a brief grace to the ugly sun-washed clutter of the boulevards, and create purple paths where we might choose to, who knows, stroll arm in arm. Every time I see the purple flowers, I think they might herald a whole summer of love.

Last week was too early for jacaranda, so I started my search for public affection at the beach. And yes, out on the sand, I immediately spotted a few couples happily entangled on their towels. But the beach is really not, in full sun, a romantic locale. There's the sweat, the waistline bulge, and the whole sunscreen problem. Physical contact was actually rare, and only toward sunset did statistically significant romance arrive. During the precise six minutes of beauty, I did see folks reach for one another. Then we all ran back to our cars.

Next day, at the same romantic hour, I headed for the Grove to count the number of couples actually touching as they shopped. That's all it required, I decided, a touch. Frank Sinatra sang, Almost Like Being in Love, but around the fountain I swear every couple walked with arms carefully crossed, separated by exactly the same physical distance as in their bucket seats. I dodged a tight gaggle of teenage girls until at last I spotted an actual couple cuddling on a bench: he with a magnificent goatee and funky hat, she with short skirt, and legs honestly thrown over his.

I figured them for recent immigrants. And sure enough, when I spotted three more couples walking arm in arm, they proved to be tourists from Japan.

Discouraged, I entered Abercrombie & Fitch, where, as always, torn clothing was going for premium prices. On the walls I found gigantic blowups of buff people, each magnificent, but always, and oddly…alone. Even in a huge mural featuring many beautiful men and women, each one stood proud, separate, and self-absorbed. I didn't waste much time waiting for the customers to interact. I mean, to grapple here would violate some unwritten rule.

After an hour and a half at the Grove, after surveying restaurants and Nordstrom's and faux streets, I counted just six couples who touched in any way. Really, just six.

And I think…Gee. Has much of what Angelenos consider romantic become a mere excuse for evading romance? Do we shop hip boutiques because one can't have a serious conversation in a hip boutique? Do we haunt late night clubs because they're too loud for any conversation at all? Have we renewed our passion for movie theaters because like our cars, they too now offer bucket seats? Do we obsess about restaurants because food is simpler than love? Do we obsess about sex because it offers a really good excuse to avoid holding hands?

For a moment, the Urban Man does tremble for the L.A. soul. Then I think: No worries, it's almost time for the purple flowers.

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Public Displays of Affection

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