The Skippie Team (aka, The Husband, Monsieur Fifty, and me) is looking for a new home.
Since our current cozy little abode was The Husband’s before I moved in, it’s a fine size for one single man, kind of big enough for the two of us, but you throw an ever growing Fifty into the mix, my shoe collection, and an occasional house guest, and forget about it.
(Not to mention The Husband’s weight bench is in the living room… no where else to put it… have you ever tried decorating around a weight bench?)
Home hunting is beginning to be a bit of an ordeal so naturally I should be posting about it. Let you in on the joys of dealing with real estate agents in the south of France (and if any French real estate agents are reading this, well I’m sure you are a lovely hard working person and please do not take anything I say seriously. Because I don’t).
We’re pretty flexible about what we’re looking for…
A two bedroom (one bedroom will do if it and the rest of the home is large) house or an apartment with a terrace or small garden (no point in living in Provence if you can’t sit outside… once the rain stops that is).
And that’s that. See, told you I was flexible.
Potential Home 1…
About fifteen minutes down the road from where we are now, and heading in the direction of Papa’s house, so that’s good.
The Husband came home from work and we headed off. On the way I asked him if the house had a garden. He said he didn’t know. Then I asked him if it was one or two bedrooms. He said he didn’t know. Then I asked him if he knew what time wasting was. Joking.
(actually I’m not, but I didn’t want to seem mean).
Seriously. I asked him why he didn’t ask because what was the point if it was one small bedroom and no terrace or garden. Get this… he actually mumbled something about the agent phoning him, and him not being able to hear because he was driving and the window was down. So I asked him if he thought about rolling up the window. He started to mumble something again. I gave him that one eyebrow up, wife look, and he cracked, admitting that he hadn’t asked anything at all.
Because why would you even bother?
“Sure go ahead, show me everything you’ve got, including the twenty room villa with the vineyard and tennis courts.”
(I mean what type of an excuse is that? The whole window open thing, ridiculous. The Husband is a horrible liar but I guess, that’s a good thing).
We pulled up and from the outside and not too shabby. It was a creamy yellow stucco, and looked new.
(Which is strange when it’s wedged in between centuries old houses on both sides. How do they manage to do that when all the houses look like they are connected? Clearly a question for another time, unless anyone reading this knows the answer…).
And it seemed nice inside. New dark tiled floors, fresh paint and lots of windows.
But one small bedroom (with no closet and not much space for an armoire) that you had to walk through to get to the garage, which in itself is like a death trap. Not joking. I opened a door to what I thought was a closet and there was just black open space. It’s like having your very own black hole into the abyss.
Right after I almost plummeted to my death, the agent came over and turned on a light to reveal a very steep and small rickety ladder-like stairs that bring you down to the garage. Well, that won’t do at all. That’s a big ol’ accident just waiting to happen. A few too many glasses of wine and oops! Game over.
Plus, the open plan living room, dining room kitchen upstairs would be way too small once furniture, Fifty, and a weight bench was moved into it.
Oh, and no garden or terrace.
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