It was in the seventies. (important to remember, because it would be impossible today). Work was becoming tedious, boring, and soul sucking. Each night I would go home, grumpy, complaining, unable to leave the drudgery behind. Finally, one night I proclaimed to my family I was done. Through with listening to whining customers with their ridiculous deadlines; I was quitting.

Needless to say, it was not a popular declaration. I found myself commiserating with an old, self-employed, friend, and our conversations grew from wishful thinking, to possibly hopeful planning, to definite steps we might take to realize a dream.

Weeks of explaining, badgering, promising, and downright pleading, brought both of our wives onside at last. We would sell everything, pack up, move to another country, and start our own business, with all of us involved.

Sounded easy when you said it fast, but so many details surfaced mercilessly. Family first and foremost. Convincing them was worse than work, yet they all saw our determination and surrendered to the inevitable - we were doing this.

Our first step, after agreeing on a destination, was for my chum and I to fly there and scout out a possible source of income. We spent two entire days researching a feasible idea, drafting a plan, and flying home to discuss the possibilities.

Every night was spent hashing over all the ramifications, the financial responsibilities and the execution. It was decided that my wife and chum would go back down and do a deep dive into available sites. This was the trip that provided the gas for our adventurous engine, and we cranked it up.

The nightmare began. Marketing our homes. Disposing of contents. All the utilities, insurance, international moving company (there were some things we just could not part with), mail delivery. So many things we never even considered. But, we got it done. My chum and his wife had a little more trouble, and we were needed to assist in their move.

Time came to leave. I had given notice but was still obligated for a short period, so wife and son flew down ahead. Our daughter, not wanting any part of our madness, eloped. Since I still had time, and was living with my mother-in-law, I got to know my new son-in-law, pleased that she had not just grabbed someone off the street to avoid joining us.

My turn. Final farewells to all. Our car as a wedding gift (insurance not included) a final ride to the airport, and away. My chum and his wife had applied for green cards. We looked at one another and said, to hell with it, let's just go - and we did.

Our new enterprise was a small hotel in Palm Springs, California. (Hotel because the Chamber of Commerce didn't permit the word motel). Built in the late twenties, it was very popular with the celebrity exodus from Hollywood, and over the years many personalities, in front of and behind the cameras, vacationed there.

Owned originally by an elderly woman who retired, it was purchased by a couple of fellows our age, who made a decent success running it. Now, we were asking the place to support two families of three each. On top of which, one of the prime rooms was taken over by mine -a large kitchen unit with two bedrooms - a big loss of potential revenue.

I arrived just ahead of our tardy moving van, and had to direct that along with enduring the scrutiny of our long term stays (six months every year!). Somewhat settled, we held a war council to determine steps forward. Our long stays were only about one third of our income, we needed to flog the other vacancies.

Our wives immediately turned to the aesthetics. We had agreed to keep it in the Twenties Hollywood era, matching that with new materials and decor items. My chum and I dove into the promotion. He was a music copywriter/singer. I was a graphics designer. Duck soup! We developed a new brochure for the hotel, and an advertising program that was sent to travel guides, newspapers, magazines - and our biggest success - the annual Palm Springs Life hard back coffee table book that sat in every hotel room in the desert! With pictures!

My parents managed a trip down for our first Christmas (another room removed from revenue). One hundred in the shade Christmas morning! At night we stood around the pool shivering in eighty degrees. They were impressed. My dad asked me if the tax business was legal, I told him to just file my return and not worry about it. I worried.

Now being illegally in the country, owning a business, was not without a lot of tap dancing. Our first year was an annual census, which had to be delivered to all guests at the time. Ours went straight into the dumper. Next came income tax. We paid all our business taxes, everything was on the up and up (some maid service was on the down low - who were we to point fingers?) but income tax was unavoidable.

I should point out that we never told our government we were moving either, so we were still 'living' there. The American social security number was the same number of digits as the Canadian number - just broken differently. We mailed our return with our own numbers in the right order, and held our breath.

When the letter from the IRS arrived, we choked. It read: Thank you for submitting your return with the correct figures. Unfortunately we do not seem to be able to find your SIN number. Never heard another word. Same each year too!

That, however didn't work with the college we moved our son to. He had been enrolled in grade seven in the local school but they informed us he was too far ahead for their curriculum. The college was great. He was pumped. Our SIN number didn't cut it with them. We had to pay his tuition.

Life was good. Not the exact dream imagined. but close enough. My chum and I joined the hotel committee on request. A committee formed to keep the level of excellence up to grade. We investigated complaints mostly, advising owners how to improve, and what steps to take to rectify the complaints.

Our diligence got us both a seat on the Chamber of Commerce board! Truth! Among other members were the mayor, chief of police, and fire. We literally trembled at meetings. They knew we were Canadians, and just assumed the rest. This brought us more opportunities, and our no vacancy sign was lit more often than not on busy weekends.

Summer was murder on business. A few Europeans (who seemed immune to the heat) and some salesmen. The occasional one-nighter - we couldn't be fussy. We even had the police stash a witness with us over night. That was newsworthy. A TV travel commentator from San Diego came down to film us for a segment.

My chum and his wife flew home for one summer to see their son and family. We did the best we could to keep business, but a fire broke out on the San Jacinto mountain. Twenty-eight thousand acres blazed for days, and we were buried in ash. Had to keep the pool covered. Constantly hosing down the patio and furniture. The few guests we had, checked out.

We needed money. I scoured the desert for printing shops and found one who needed a very large, intricate form ruled, and a lot of type pasted in. He said he needed it in a hurry - two weeks! At home it would have been that day!!! I took it, and back at the hotel I set up a sheet of plywood drawing board, dug out my drawing tools (which, yes, I brought with me) and went to work.

I also had a hand waxer that applied a thin coat of melted wax over the back of the reproduction proofs of the type, to mount the text instead of using cement. I was back in two days, and the entire staff came out to see who this man was. They were really rocked. We agreed on a price and shook on a deal for further business. I then flew away, cape flapping behind.

Our partners arrived back, and my wife went home. Her mom was alone and unwell. Things weren't looking great. My daughter and husband came down for a honey moon. Some of my old customers showed up for short stays. We had Gloria Swanson drop by to visit an old friend who was staying there. She passed on shortly after. I met the then art director on M*A*S*H.

We hosted some producers, a few lesser actors, a couple of recognizable directors, and a number of very interesting, regular people. All in all it was a successful adventure. Our son found work (illegally, I know) we had the kindest letters sent from guests, praising our hospitality. Then my wife said she had to stay with her mom - understandably.

We all talked it over and in the end, decided to sell. We found a cracker jack real estate lady who found a buyer and a deal was struck. Once more the moving nightmare, and the necessary extrication from the business through an obliging accountant.

Our son wanted to stay, so I spoke to the fellow he worked for, who promised to keep a good eye on him and I said okay for one year. Agreed. When I got home, I met the moving van at a customs depot. This was where I thought my string had run out. Several legal sized forms, containing everything you could possibly own, needed to be filled out and signed.

Now I had packed a lot of stuff that we bought down there, along with items from the hotel that we all agreed was acceptable. One being quite a bit of wine and liquor that we had purchased for guest celebrations and such. On the form, I missed the line that said TV, and I had packed a ten inch black and white that we bought for a bedroom in the hotel.

The customs man stared at me and said, nobody moves back from the US without a TV. The driver threw up his hands in disgust. Well, Fred Astaire would have looked like Long John Silver, as I danced at the back of the van, praying he wouldn't open it. Prayer answered. He let me go.

We moved in with my wife's mom, and had one visit to check on our son, then when he came home he stayed with us. My wife got a great job which she retired from. I became self employed, exploiting old contacts. We lived socially on anecdotes for years after.

My chum and his wife stayed. We kept in constant touch plus visited a few times. Our illegal adventure was the greatest thing we could have done, and we did it without consequence.

A/N: Based on a true story.