I hate the term real estate. It's cold and business-y, everything that tends to make me hide under the bed. What I write about is space: homes, cafes, places where you can do work, pet the cat, and Google your next-door-neighbor from 10 years ago. I write about places. And I like to do it from a personal perspective.

Friday, March 24, 2006

Feel like the luckiest ...

My own piece of real estate, the $1400/month cottage I share with Adam in Berkeley, has a history.

For nearly two decades, it was a parent-run co-op. A preschool. The smiling woman featured in the link above, and her kiddie cohorts, are in the Orange Room. Today, that's our bedroom.

Our living room still bears the outline of the kids' locker, where they put their coats and hats. One wall in there is bright tangerine. Our kitchen is a dark, yet cheerful, red.

My home office looks out onto pastoralia with a twist: birds that fight and make up and fight again, squirrels that skitter across our roof and down through the trees, leaving my cat to blink in surprise; an angry duck that, inexplicably, squawks loudest in the midafternoon.

Our landlord's sons went to preschool here. Later, one of them lived with a girlfriend here. When they decided to move to Portland, the cottage became ours.

When we rented the place, we'd made the decision to live together only two days earlier. We'd just come home from a trip to Europe and Adam surprised me with this simple statement: "Going home feels like work. So I was thinking: Maybe we should look for a place."

We'd been together a year, friends for far longer. When we found the cottage, I felt the way I long ago felt about him: This was right.

I'm typing this in our living room as he sleeps in the Orange Room. And still I know: This is right. This is home.


Post a Comment

<< Home