My mother had always admonished me to date nice Jewish girls. Otherwise, I might fall in love with someone who wasn’t.

When I moved to Los Angeles, I’m sure she thought I had come to the perfect place. Living off Fairfax Avenue, I was in the ideal neighborhood to meet a Jewish woman and not far from where my newlywed parents lived 40 years earlier.

But this was not the same city, and it had different plans for me. I started my search in earnest, unbounded by faith, within a small radius that grew bigger along the way.

During Friday night jazz at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, I met Katrina, a statuesque blond who had recently emigrated from Russia. Over a Korean barbecue dinner on La Cienega Boulevard, she talked about her fiancé, explaining that an engagement for her meant something different than it did for me, which gave me hope.

She also mentioned she loved the Sunday string quartets that performed at the museum. Curiously, I developed an interest in them too. I visited a few times on Sunday but never saw Katrina again.

Speaking of art, I met Jill as I was admiring the collection in a gallery on Rodeo Drive where she worked. She told me I was handsome and had a nice voice. She looked a little bit to me like Vanessa Williams. We exchanged numbers. I wanted to ask her out but soon realized she just wanted me to buy a painting.

A friend introduced me to curious Stephanie at an event in Little Tokyo. After one of our dates, she took me to a video rental shop (yes, this was before streaming) and had me check out a gay porn movie to watch at her place. It wasn’t an aphrodisiac.

After giggling and hiding her eyes behind a pillow, she fell asleep on the couch. I slipped out, returned the movie and headed home. And that was the last movie we ever watched together, gay or straight.

I met Daniella at a party for my friend Dale’s parents at his childhood home in Baldwin Hills. There were a lot of people and plenty of food and music. While Dale showed me around the backyard, Daniella approached, dancing. Dale gave me a look that said I needed to dance too. She was the caregiver for Dale’s aging father, and in her spare time, a Michael Jackson impersonator. She gave me her number, and we agreed to meet again later.

She had to meet after midnight, when Dale’s father was asleep, and return by 6 a.m. One night, I arrived around 12:30 a.m. and waited. Twenty minutes later, she emerged wearing a waist-length, straight-hair, purple wig. I drove her to the Santa Monica pier, where we strolled and talked through the night. Surprisingly, there were many others doing the same.

I returned her before sunrise and went home and slept. When I woke up, I was pretty sure a purple wig-wearing Michael Jackson impersonator was not my type.

I saw Alisha at an election party at the Biltmore Hotel. We knew each other from college, and I recognized her. More than 10 years later, she looked the same — gorgeous. She remembered me too. Soon we were doing lunch in Larchmont, dinner in West Hollywood and movies at Beverly Connection. She accompanied me to my company’s Christmas party at the Biltmore.

She worked as a foreign correspondent for a big network, which had been her dream. That took her all over the world, and a few months later, she left on assignment. I hung in there, thinking an international romance was in the works.

After sending me postcards and having late-night phone calls for over a year, she made it clear: She wasn’t returning, and our careers were “going in different directions.”

Then I met Samantha, a temporary employee at my work. After she left, we started dating. We listened to jazz, drank and danced until we were out of breath at B.B. King’s Blues Club at Universal CityWalk, Harvelle’s in Santa Monica and Margarita Jones in South Los Angeles.

I gave her my keys. Sometimes she was waiting for me when I returned from work, and I would make her dinner. At her place near Crenshaw Boulevard, I made her piña coladas from a mix. She was impressed.

One weekend, I met her mother. We joked about what to call her. “What about mom?” I said facetiously, which got me a look that said, “Never!” Everyone had a good laugh. Coincidentally or not, the relationship ended not long after.

A year or so later, a co-worker introduced me to Carol. Our first date was nice, but our second date was (almost) perfect.

Carol was glowing, and I was starting to see sparks. I had scored a lot of points for the restaurant. During dinner, I told her I wanted to push the plates aside, climb across the table and kiss her in front of everyone. Wisely, I didn’t. Instead, we kissed outside the restaurant. It wasn’t my best kiss. I tried to meet her lips as we walked side by side with my arm around her shoulders. She stopped, moved me to face her and had me try again.

After that, things only got better. We drank ourselves silly listening to Marty and Elayne at the Dresden, tried swing dancing at the Derby and took long hikes in Griffith Park.

The matriarch of Carol’s family, Halmeoni, did not approve of her granddaughter dating someone who wasn’t even Asian, let alone a Jew.

The family doctor put her mind at ease. “Jews are very much like Koreans,” he said. “They are educated and successful.” Reminding her of the men in Hancock Park in trench coats and top hats on weekends, he added, “and they are excellent dressers.”

From then on, Carol told me that Halmeoni affectionately referred to me as the “Jewish man.” I did not try to explain to her that I am not Hasidic, if for no other reason than she did not speak English.

Four years into our relationship, we wed in an interfaith ceremony in Altadena, although finding a rabbi to preside over it was not easy. We exchanged vows under the chuppah. I broke the glass. We signed our ketubah.

We also incorporated a Korean ceremony. We wore hanboks, sipped tea and bowed to Carol’s mother. Korean dancers entertained our guests. Afterward, one of them teased us. “Chuppahs and kimchi,” he repeated, giddy to have coined a new catchphrase for multicultural weddings.

Then our daughter, Isabel, arrived. For 18 years, she has been the unifying force of our existence. She is a beautiful, mixed-race, interfaith young woman. She loves to eat kimbap and tteokbokki, earns excellent grades in school and has an impeccable sense of fashion. She also reads Hebrew, had her bat mitzvah and, like her mom and dad, loves to roam the city.

My mother did not live long enough to see all this happen, but even though I broke a few ground rules, I think she would be pleased with how it all worked out.

The author is a writer and a lobbyist for a trade association. He lives in Los Angeles. He’s on Facebook at facebook.com/richardlaezman.

L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.