Moving House and the cycle of desire

I have an inborn restlessness that kicks in fairly reliably once or twice a year. This is when I start scanning websites and Zillow for underpriced habitats that no one in their right mind would consider purchasing.

But, lucky me; I have the gift of instant-renovation vision. Sort of a Polaroid camera approach. Click: the photograph pops out, barely recognizable as the waterlogged cottage(price just reduced!) tottering on the edge of a salt water marsh. Of course, it was not always a marsh ― clearly, only an idiot would build a house on marshland.

Many years ago, however, it was a rugged bluff. Hurricanes battered away at the coastline, but in the harmonious dance that we used to rely on, hurricanes rearranged the face of beaches, scooping away the loose sand but then tossing it back to the sand dunes, reinforcing the dunes’ utility as barriers to the winds and eroding sea squalls.

Climate change, as most of my well-informed readers are aware, is quietly encouraging both the mayhem and the unpredictable damage ahead. That priceless view of the ocean? Gone, baby, gone. The twice-daily high tide gnawing away at the protective dunes wreaks havoc in an astonishingly short period of time. The porch, which my mind’s eye can quickly design, will completely disintegrate within the next 2 years — well before the mortgage is paid off. This is not doomy gloomy talk ; this is real. But it doesn’t stop me from taking breaks from editing or writing and meandering through the endlessly alluring real estate offerings.

Even better, or worse — depending on your ability to draw a line between fantasy and reality — is exploring real estate online. Farm houses in France, compact homes built of stone and silvered driftwood on Greek islands, and those wonderful cottages along the coast of Portugal. Bleached of color by the sun and salt air, the seaside cabanas look remarkably like the sand-polished seashells scattered along the endless Portuguese beaches.

Last year, after a short getaway to the shore of Rhode Island, James and I became utterly obsessed with a small dark-red building that had originally been a fire station. The ceilings on the main floor were very high; tall enough that we easily imagined turning that wasted space into a platform for bunk beds for visiting grandchildren. Ansel and Laszlo would have loved clamoring up to bed on the ladders left over from the fire station days. BUT: no kitchen and only one tiny bathroom. There was however, a large, dry cellar for storage, a washing machine, and appliances.

In the end, after agonizing, we decided against it. The reality — at least the reality that felt important at the time — started to nibble away at our grand fantasy. Having to start new friendships in our 70s; finding new doctors whose advice we trusted. Our writers group! And the sheer physical investment of selling our house, packing — and culling our considerable accumulation of STUFF. And of course, all the books.

Still, this year when we were getting ready to pack up and leave Paris, out of the blue, I asked James which arrondissements he’d want to live in, if we ever decided to NOT go home. To my surprise and pleasure, we both opted for a home in the banlieues.