Who are you calling a ho?
Actually, it's southward ho -- over 500 miles, in fact. When John and I flew down to the desert in early March to look at houses, we really intended to just look -- simply get some idea of the neighborhoods we should consider and decide what styles appeal to both of us. All we really knew was that we both loved the Coachella Valley and wanted to eventually retire there. Our realtor showed us lots of houses, many that were obvious quick flips with chintzy-looking fixtures and tepid dipping pools like warm bidets. One house smelled so strongly of cat pee I had to bolt into the yard, where I encountered a tortoise the size of a ride-on toy. It was munching on a head of lettuce like an old man whose lunch has been interrupted.
As we turned up our respective noses at each location -- houses with crazy statuary in the yards, houses in neighborhoods where mariachi music blared from parked pickups, houses someone outfitted with chrome rafters festooned with LED lights -- our realtor saw what she had on her hands and suggested she show us a place a bit outside the town, in a gated community.
"A gated community?" I asked, responding to the trigger term. "What are we now, Republicans?"
But as often happens, we saw the house and knew it was for us. For one thing, we're so used to San Francisco prices that it was a revelation that we could afford a pristine, nearly 3,000-square-foot house with a landscaped yard and a deep, beautiful pool. Not to mention a laundry room, so no more dragging laundry up and down six flights (78 stairs!). In fact it's all on one level, because we're both 62 and this is where we'll spend our golden years together. Which one's Blanche, and which one's Dorothy?
The next three weeks were a blur of DocuSign forms and money movement, and then escrow closed like a curtain coming down on our Northern California lives.
So yes, we're fleeing the crime, the filth, the homelessness and the ridiculous expense of San Francisco. The monthly cost of the rent-controlled apartment I took ten years ago will probably climb from $2,277 to around $6,000. I'll miss our 180-degree view of the city and the bay, but not the wind howling in the chimneys all summer. This blog will chronicle our adjustment to our new desert life. Come for the stories, stay for the cheesecake.
Actually, it's southward ho -- over 500 miles, in fact. When John and I flew down to the desert in early March to look at houses, we really intended to just look -- simply get some idea of the neighborhoods we should consider and decide what styles appeal to both of us. All we really knew was that we both loved the Coachella Valley and wanted to eventually retire there. Our realtor showed us lots of houses, many that were obvious quick flips with chintzy-looking fixtures and tepid dipping pools like warm bidets. One house smelled so strongly of cat pee I had to bolt into the yard, where I encountered a tortoise the size of a ride-on toy. It was munching on a head of lettuce like an old man whose lunch has been interrupted.
As we turned up our respective noses at each location -- houses with crazy statuary in the yards, houses in neighborhoods where mariachi music blared from parked pickups, houses someone outfitted with chrome rafters festooned with LED lights -- our realtor saw what she had on her hands and suggested she show us a place a bit outside the town, in a gated community.
"A gated community?" I asked, responding to the trigger term. "What are we now, Republicans?"
But as often happens, we saw the house and knew it was for us. For one thing, we're so used to San Francisco prices that it was a revelation that we could afford a pristine, nearly 3,000-square-foot house with a landscaped yard and a deep, beautiful pool. Not to mention a laundry room, so no more dragging laundry up and down six flights (78 stairs!). In fact it's all on one level, because we're both 62 and this is where we'll spend our golden years together. Which one's Blanche, and which one's Dorothy?
The next three weeks were a blur of DocuSign forms and money movement, and then escrow closed like a curtain coming down on our Northern California lives.
So yes, we're fleeing the crime, the filth, the homelessness and the ridiculous expense of San Francisco. The monthly cost of the rent-controlled apartment I took ten years ago will probably climb from $2,277 to around $6,000. I'll miss our 180-degree view of the city and the bay, but not the wind howling in the chimneys all summer. This blog will chronicle our adjustment to our new desert life. Come for the stories, stay for the cheesecake.
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