The Date with Exiled Royalty Continues: Lost in The Crenshaw District of L.A. (Not a safe place, in case you didn’t know.)

(You can read the previous post about my date here: Flirting with Disaster: Dating Exiled Afghani Royalty . Trust me, it’s true.)

Not even Starbucks, which is EVERYWHERE in the world, dares venture there. (They weren’t there then, but they may be in the area now. I hear Starbucks is going to take over the world by winning the Franchise Wars.)

Picture this: A darkly lit and filthy street, bordered by run-down and abandoned warehouses covered with graffiti and broken windows, and shiftless people (who hopefully don’t read this blog) lingering on street corners.

In the middle of this: A flashy, shinny black Mercedes driven by an older, well-dressed gentleman wearing a flashy Rolex. Seated next to him is a tow-headed white gal (that would be me) dressed in a suddenly-too-revealing little dress. Also flashy.

There are no other cars – parked or driving – on the street. There are no hookers on the streets. Not even hookers want to be here.

Kahlil had no idea where we were, let alone the culture of the neighborhood. But I had an idea. Oh, and this expensive, custom-crafted, bulletproof Mercedes lacked GPS fer cryin’ out loud. Seriously folks – WTF??

We were lost. And screwed.

As we begin to drive around in circles in the dark abyss of no-man’s-land I tap a fingernail on the front windshield and ask, “Is this bulletproof, too?”

“Yes”, calmly replies Kahlil.

I tap on the sunroof, “Is this bulletproof?”

“No”, says Kahlil, still calm.

No? NO???! Why bother to make 3/4 of a Mercedes bulletproof and totally ignore the possibility of an air attack? The possibility of an air attack is VERY REAL. I’ve seen it on TV.

Did I mention we were screwed?

In an effort to end my, shall we say discomfort, Kahlil decides to speed up this catastrophe and ask directions from some Random Shiftless Person standing on the street corner. But not just any corner – Kahlil chooses the corner on my side of the car. I’d like to know what was wrong with his side of the bulletproof car?

Without warning he pulls over to the RANDOM SHIFTLESS PERSON and rolls down my window. MY little bit of bulletproof protection is now gone.

Ohhh, that’s right: Sacrifice the blond! That’s what they always do in the movies.

F^@$*#’  Hollywood. Talk about perpetuating a stereotype.

“What are you doooing?!”, I exclaim, frantically punching the window-up button. “You can’t just pull up to some person standing on the street corner! He could be dangerous!”

Panic has set in. This is not good for me, or anyone in the vicinity.

Sensing I am a force to be reckoned with at this moment, he pulls away from the curb – and the random shiftless person. He says, again in his very calm and matter-of-fact demeanor, “If it is our time to go, then it is our time.”

And this is why he needs a bullet proof Mercedes: Kahlil is a Fatalist. A fatalist lacking discernment.

What is this ‘our’ time garbage? I’M not a fatalist, I’ll have you know, and it is NOT gonna be my time ‘to go’. It can be your time but it’s not gonna be mine.

At this moment I could not have been more grateful for the bulletproof Mercedes. Whoever thought of such a thing is a genius. (I love you. Call me.)

Prior to this point, he had been rather reluctant to call his General Manager at the Palos Verdes restaurant we’d left, by now an hour ago, and ask for help. Chalk it up to male pride, or a desire to die in a dangerous part of L.A., I don’t know and really don’t care. “Suck it up” for safety’s sake is my motto.

Apparently, the fresh prospect of reckoning with a panic-stricken and bonkers blond suddenly seemed less appealing than sucking it up and making that call.

Kahlil made the call, got the directions from the GM, and we made it back to Malibu safely. (Young suitors take note: Sucking it up and making the call is the better way to go. We will respect you for it in the morning. It is not sexy to get us lost and act like a macho dork driving around in circles. We will not respect that in the morning. And we may write about it years later.)

Once back in Malibu, he walked me to my car and, apparently having decided this was the perfect time, proceeded to put ‘the moves’ on me.

Yes, now is a great time for me to be hit on since I’ve just narrowly escaped being sacrificed. By you. I’m totally in the mood.

So, guess what he did? He honked my breast. Like you would honk an old-fashioned car horn with a rubber end. Seriously. No, I am not laughing.

As much as I like to get groped every now and then – by the right man at the right time – FINESSE in executing the move is of utmost importance. I can not stress this enough.

Take note young suitors: Honking breasts lacks finesse. (Not sure what finesse means? It means grow a pair and call, don’t text or email, a gal for a date. It also means don’t treat her like a piece of meat – or a car horn.)

But I digress.

As nice of a man as he was, this was our last date. Shocking, I know. And you thought I was just in to him for his money, didn’t you? Be not ye so quick to judge, dear ones. The waters are far deeper than they first appear; know ye not what lurks in their dark depths.

Next… “Why are you single?” – in case you can’t already guess.