When I got the keys to my Montreal condo overlooking the Lachine Canal in August 2022, it felt like I had arrived. My new place had heated floors, marble counters, and even a rooftop pool with skyline views.
Still, after years of working hard to save up for my dream home and isolating during the COVID-19 pandemic, my parents and friends nudged me back into the world.
I had become overly attached to routines and the comfort of my condo: evening walks with my dog, the same coffee order, the same canal view. Reluctantly, I booked a trip to California.
The plan was simple: escape winter for a few weeks, write by the ocean, and return home inspired. Instead, I fell in love.
On my getaway, I found a whirlwind romance that pushed me toward California
During my trip, I’d discovered Venice Beach paddle tennis and booked a lesson with Hit with Marcus, run by a local coach named Marcus Canillas. I figured I’d learn a new sport and get some local recommendations.
Long conversations after lessons followed. I’d started riding past the courts on a colorful bike I’d bought off Facebook when I wasn’t practicing just to wave hello to him.
One night after a lesson, I finally worked up the courage to ask where I should go nearby for sushi or a drink. He suggested a small place called Hama, and I left it at that. I figured if we happened to run into each other there, it was fate.
Later that night, my phone buzzed.
“Great job today,” he texted. “You only hit a few balls over the fence.”
I told him I was distracted, followed by a wink. We kept texting until he casually mentioned he was at Hama.
“Oh,” I replied. “Is that an invite?”
“It’s a free country.”
“America!” I answered.
Ten minutes later, I was on my way. It was probably the most reckless thing I had done in years.
Back in Montreal, my life was safe and secure. Concierge staff monitored my building. Neighbors collected my packages and watered my plants while I was away. Even in my forties, I emailed my parents itineraries whenever I went anywhere alone.
When the night ended, Marcus made sure I got back to my rental safely. That was when I started to think maybe this could become something more.
As my trip eventually came to an end, we met again at a local bar, trying to compress everything into one last farewell evening.
Time stretched the way it does when two people know goodbye is going to hurt. At some point, we looked at the clock and realized it was after 2 a.m. I still needed to pack and head to LAX.
He dropped me off, and two hours later, I was in a cab to the airport. As my dog, Lenny, and I sat at the gate, exhausted and emotionally hungover, my phone buzzed again. We kept talking.
When I returned to Montreal, I unlocked the door to my spotless condo. My place was exactly the same, but I wasn’t.
Over the next few weeks, Marcus and I talked constantly, sometimes until early morning. When an unexpected residual check arrived, instead of reinvesting it, I booked another ticket to Los Angeles for Valentine’s Day.
This time, Marcus picked me up with flowers.
I rented another place in Venice and invited him over. We watched movies, walked the neighborhood, and slowly started building a life together without naming what we were doing.
When it came time to fly home again, leaving felt impossible. After a few more trips back and forth, we got engaged.
Moving to be with my partner was far from glamorous, but I’m so grateful I found love
After our engagement came the part no romantic movie will really show you: the challenging logistics and difficult aftermath.
I sold my condo below market value. I donated or sold almost everything I owned except for a few boxes and some artwork.
Crossing the border into the United States, I was no longer the woman who had purchased her dream property in Montreal. I arrived with no Social Security number and no American credit history.
My savings immediately shrank under an exchange rate that wasn’t working in my favor. Apartments rejected us because I had no financial paper trail in the US.
Eventually, my fiancé found us a rent-controlled apartment in Venice. It costs more a month than my condo did, despite being a downgrade in almost every way, from the mold to the security lights blasting through the bedroom window.
I lost my job, my employment benefits, and access to socialized healthcare. I went from being established to sending résumés into a void while immigration paperwork moved through a faceless bureaucracy.
Still, we kept going. We got married, and we make things work in our 500-square-foot rental.
Some days, I miss the version of myself who was financially secure and knew exactly where she belonged.
But I understand now that the condo was never really the dream. The dream was finding someone willing to hold my hand through uncertainty and say, “We’ll figure this out together.”
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