When I got the keys to my Montreal condo in August 2022, it felt like I had arrived. My new place overlooking the Lachine Canal had marble counters, heated floors, 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, I had become overly attached to routines and the comfort of my condo.
Most days consisted of evening walks with my dog, the same coffee order, the same canal view. My parents and friends nudged me back into the world and, reluctantly, I booked a trip to California.
My simple plan was to escape winter for a few weeks, write by the ocean, and return home inspired. Instead, I fell in love.
On my trip, I found a whirlwind romance that pushed me toward California
I found myself becoming attached to Venice Beach and a particular person I’d met there.
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During my trip, I decided to try Venice Beach paddle tennis and booked a lesson with Hit with Marcus, run by local coach Marcus Canillas.
I figured I’d learn a new sport and get some local recommendations. I did — but I also found myself connecting with the coach, a California native.
Long conversations after lessons followed. When I wasn’t practicing, I started to ride past the courts on a colorful bike I’d bought off Facebook Marketplace 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 winking smile. 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.
I found myself becoming more attached to California than I expected.
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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. Neighbors collected my packages and watered my plants while I was away. Concierge staff monitored my building. Even in my 40s, 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 fit 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 and I sat at the gate, exhausted and emotionally hungover, my phone buzzed again. We kept talking.
The view from my condo in Montreal didn’t look the same after I returned.
Janine Canillas
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 grateful I found love
Although it wasn’t easy, I’m glad I moved to California for love.
Janine Canillas
After our engagement came the part that no romantic movie really shows you: the difficult aftermath and challenging logistics.
I donated or sold nearly everything I owned except for a few boxes and some artwork. I ended up selling my beloved condo below market value.
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. So many apartments in California rejected Marcus and me because I didn’t have a financial paper trail in the US.
Eventually, he found us a 500-square-foot 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 our bedroom window.
I lost my job, my employment benefits, and access to socialized healthcare. I went from being established to sending my résumés into a void while immigration paperwork moved through a faceless bureaucracy.
My life’s savings immediately shrank under an exchange rate that wasn’t working in my favor. Still, we kept going.
We got married, and we make things work in our small rental. Some days, I miss the version of myself who was financially secure and knew exactly where she belonged.
However, 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.”
This story was originally published on June 11, 2026, and most recently updated on August 25, 2026.