> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.smdp.com/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # Santa Monica has become home for a Canadian transplant - URL: https://www.smdp.com/santa-monica-has-become-home-for-a-canadian-transplant/ - Published: 2004-01-06T16:00:00.000Z - Updated: 2026-10-23T03:27:10.000Z - Author: Guest Author - Tags: Opinion, Pacific Palisades, #archive-import *By Amy Perritt* In the movie “Moonlight Mile,” there is a scene where Susan Sarandon explains to Jake Gyllenhaal how she and her husband (played by Dustin Hoffman) love each other. Her explanation comes after she and Hoffman have just had an argument. To paraphrase, Sarandon says that every night, for 31 years, she knows that when she gets into bed and slides her bum up against Ben (Hoffman) that his warm body will embrace hers and calm her. “You find your home,” she says. My husband and I left our home in Toronto last summer and moved to Santa Monica. Tears were shared with family and friends when we said our good-byes, but my dream of living in sunny California where tall palm trees line the streets and winter boots are unheard of was becoming a reality. We didn’t look back. Our first outing was last summer’s Pacific Palisades July 4th parade. We figured it was a must-see because community members had placed their chairs — some even roped un-moveable — along the Sunset Boulevard sidewalks the night beforehand. While standing in the sweltering afternoon heat watching the parade, we were struck by the overwhelming participation — and patriotism. Holding American flags high above their heads, families and seniors sat front row while young teenagers ran in sync with parade marchers. Awkward-looking parents skipped alongside their costumed children playing instruments. It wasn’t because the parents were proud but rather to spray water on their offsprings’ faces and necks for hydration. Most vendors sold everything from balloons to stuffed animals and nothing that wasn’t striped red, white and blue. I recently read the novel “Martin Sloane,” written by Canadian author Michael Redhill, where the characters struggle within themselves and their environment when trying to accept who, what and where honestly makes them happy. They run to and from the people they love and who love them, which leads to inner conflict and their true feeling of home. Moving boxes emptied, cable man long gone and our paintings hanging on the walls, I drove our rented car to the grocery store with a long shopping list to stock our fridge and cupboards. When I got there, I circled the block twice then slowly drove home without ever going in. Add a passport and 2,531 miles, and the move to California wasn’t any different than the many moves I had made across Canada over the past 10 years. But if for some strange reason I fainted in the vegetable aisle, would anyone run to my aid? My wallet contained foreign identification, a Toronto parking ticket I had never gotten around to paying and dated business cards. And if someone actually asked if they could help me home, what was my address again? I called my mother who lives in Canada, just a short drive from the Atlantic Ocean. She encouraged me to go back to the store where I had had a nice conversation with a woman from whom I had bought a bath mat. She had recently moved to California from New York. To seem less like a stalker, I returned about a week later. Probably going against everything her parents had advised about not talking to strangers, she said “yes” when I invited her for coffee. I had two inches cut off my hair and the mousy-colored roots dyed a California blonde. I took my husband to the sushi restaurant recommended by my hairdresser. Even after ordering a tall coffee with half breakfast blend and half decaf during morning rush hour, I was recently promoted to “Starbucks regular” when they asked me my name — and not for labeling my coffee! Drenched in sweat during my first Californian level-one-and-two yoga class, the instructor smiled gently and suggested I lose the thick east-coast sweats for fabrics a little more forgiving. I witnessed my first “LA moment” when I walked passed a parking lot and overheard a woman ask the parking attendant if she could pay later because she just had a manicure. Then I got my nails done too. Sarandon further explained to Gyllenhaal: “It may not be what you thought, you know colors off, styles wrong, but there it is anyway and the hell with you if you can’t take a joke. You find your home. Ben’s (Hoffman’s) mine.” Not a day goes by when my husband and I don’t kiss good morning and kiss good night. That brings me home. The other day I was asked to show my ID while buying a bottle of chardonnay at the liquor store. Although I wanted to jump across the counter and kiss the man behind the cash register, I smiled instead and gave him my Canadian driver’s license that revealed my birth date — 1971\. I decided then that Santa Monica had become home. (Amy Perritt is gladly a resident of Santa Monica and has found her home). *Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on January 6, 2004.* [Read the original PDF.](https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/smdp%5Fbackissues/010604.pdf?ref=smdp.com)