But it's a fine example of the sort of thing I'm looking for. Or wish I was earnestly looking for.
Let me back up.
Last November/December, The Fates decided to hand me a lemon with the whole breast cancer thing. Then, someone must have told the Fates that I'd soon be looking to sell my house in Austin and to buy something on Long Island. Intrigued, the gods wondered if there was any way they could add to my miseries. Clearly, they could. They sent along a couple, new arrivals to Austin, who begged my realtor to show them anything, anything in Rosedale that had four bedrooms. My agent didn't pressure us at all to show them our house, which we hadn't prepped for re-sale and certainly hadn't listed yet, it not even being Christmas. But I ignored my inner voice and let the couple come around to see the place. Five times. For several hours on the last visit. Mike joked that this very enthusiastic couple was enjoying his house more than he was. I, patting myself on the back, thought we had some serious lookers here. Being spared all the effort it takes to get a house ready to sell would be some tiny compensation for what I'd been through. I sighed with relief. I could enjoy my last months in Austin riding my bike whenever I could. And I was looking forward to picking out a new family home on Long Island.
When the couple finally made an offer, it was for almost 200K less than the asking price. We politely refused that offer and the next one, a mere 100K less than we were asking for. Finally, the buyers met our bottom line price. They signed a contract and forked over the laughable option fee. As it turns out, they were just wasting another week of the valuable real-estate season. When it finally came time to cough up real money for an inspection, they pulled out of the deal, claiming that something had suddenly come up. But in a classic example of a Freudian slip, the couple revealed that they hoped to get the house for their original price, later in the season.
So now I'm back at the Wee Cottage in Huntington, tooling around with a realtor on Long Island's North Shore, looking at houses with no real relish. Who knows what will still be on the market once we've finally spruced our house up and sold it (not to the aforementioned Fiends from Hell.)? Best not to fall in love with anything. But by not falling in love, I can at least enjoy being an anthropologist, observing the natives in their habitat.
And let me tell you, the natives are inordinately fond of crosses. Being the result of a typically Protestant upbringing, I've always been slightly embarrassed by the sight of a crucifix over the bed that husband and wife occupy. What is that little bit of symbolism about exactly? There you are, walking into a couple's master suite, not thinking about what must sometimes go on in there, and one of those things stares down at you and you're suddenly wondering why they have to put it there. What are they trying to remind themselves of? It seems to be saying, "Don't over-enjoy, darling, this too shall pass." The first house we visited, instead of having some delicately formed little cross above the marriage bed, had a hulking, yes, lurid, example of the form. Christ Twisted in Agony. I all but blushed.
The next house had crosses in every room, some with the body upon them and some without. What, are the home-owners worried about wandering into the kitchen to get some mustard and suddenly forgetting what their most profound beliefs are? I don't get it.
Anyway, in one of these houses, the owner was fond of crosses and dogs. The agent was anxious that the dogs, small but vicious little ankle-biters, would be loose. Fortunately, the dogs were locked up, but there was an oil portrait of them in the main hall. I mean, a nice oil portrait. Two yorkies and a chihuahua, in muted, earthy tones, were hung next to Jesus.
But one thing I can really appreciate is the abundance of in-home bars. A 'bar' is some piece of furniture or cabinetry, at which there is elevated seating and some clear indication that more than just coke is served. I've always felt that a shelf in the kitchen is adequate for the storage of the gin we occasionally enjoy, the wine we buy as needed, and the armagnac we get every Christmas, but clearly I wasn't thinking big enough. Most houses we visited at least had a wine rack in the kitchen or a wine refrigerator or both. Fully half of them had a bar in the family room or in the basement. One house had two bars in the family room, one in one corner, and one in the opposite corner. "One for wine and one for beer?" I thought. You could seat about four people at each bar.
God, dogs, and drink. Long Island may be without mysterious crewes and voodoo cults. It may not have a Willie Nelson or any flying saucer devotees. It may not have irritating Whole Foods fans who drink liquidized weeds for breakfast. It may not be, you know, weird, like Austin. But it's possibly weird enough.
3 comments:
OMG...I live in Austin *and* I have a bar in my house. I'm guessing that makes me doubly-weird! Hope you're feeling well. Let me know when you're back so we can riiiiide.
See, now I'd have a bar in my house, but it might encourage my relatives to visit even more often. This could be a real problem when we move to New York. Austin's lovely, but it's not really on the way to anywhere, so the number of unwanted relatives can be kept low. But New York, well, everybody wants somewhere to stay in New York. I'll beg my friends to visit, but the thing about relatives is that you don't have to beg them. Or even invite them. They just come.
And let me quickly add, that I exempt my siblings from the above statement. I'll beg them to visit, too. Loudly and often.
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