Been living in a motel for . . .

I don’t know. Motel time is measured not in days but dollars. Been living in a motel for about four hundred dollars. Should be out soon.

Our house has passed inspection, the papers have been signed and we’re just waiting on the keys. Never have I hated a long weekend more. We should be in next week.

And then I can send for my stuff. I miss my clothes more than my country.

Anyway, probably a pretty good time to explain what’s going on. Why I’m in Cali and all that.

About two years ago, I married an American. We had some money saved and hoped she’d be able to become a Canadian, start working and use that money as a downpayment on a house or condo or something that we would –just barely– be able to afford in Toronto.

It was a bit of a longshot but it was a longshot within the realm of the possible.

The possible stopped being that.

The immigration process refused to move. My wife unable to work, our money was eaten. Her education considered invalid in Canada, she would have to return to school and do it all again.

Meanwhile, she cleaned houses under the table.

And my book was published.

My dayjob was the sort of thing that always had a time limit. Sooner or later, the body or mind gives out. At my age, that was becoming sooner. When my left arm wasn’t hurting, it was numb. Nerve damage, I think. The clock tick-tocked.

I’ve been able to do the job long as I have because I worked in a great place with great people and even better bosses. If it went under, I don’t know how a 34 year old gets into the business somewhere else. There’s always fresher faces than mine.

I’d been able to survive in Toronto because my landlord was actually a great guy who undercharged us for years on our apartment. But, once again, that’s not something you can count on. Sooner or later, shit like that changes. Then what?

So, with our money dwindling, no future ahead of me, and my wife’s education going to waste, we had to ask ourselves: What the fuck are we doing?

We hatched a few different plans to get out of Toronto. But when we saw how depressed the Sacramento (her hometown) real estate market was, the only possible course became clear.

Either way we cut it, there was going to be one of us trying to immigrate and both of us living off one income. Either it would be hers, with her education and career while owning a house or mine, which was shit and took time away from my writing, while renting.

Cali or T-Dot?

Choice was obvious.

Cause seriously . . . have you been to Toronto?

Like, during my going away party at the bar where I worked, the cops showed up at 11pm, and accused us of “excessive frivolity.” Excessive fucking frivolity.

If the choice wasn’t clear up to that moment, it was clear then: Fuck Toronto. California knows how to party. Unless 2Pac has been lying to me. And I don’t think he has.

I’ve known some great people in Toronto and had some good times. My best friends are still there. All the same, fuck Toronto. And I know Cali has its problems. But Toronto isn’t one of them.

I love you Toronto but fuck you.

And fuck that fucking mayor and fuck fucking Rogers and the whole stinking lot of it.

My wife flew down about four months ago. Couch-surfed, slept on floors and, after some struggle, stress and strife, found us a house. We bought it. I came down to join her. And here I am.

In a motel.

But we’re almost there.

Wherever there might be, it’s nice to be with her again.