Originally Written June 30th 2022 Yesterday, we had traveled up north to visit Cordes sur Ciel, but this morning, we were actually traveling south, making our way to the coast. Today we had the “Scandi home,” named for the nationality of the agency and the “English B and B,” named for the style that the house embodied in the few photos shown on the listing. The “Scandi home” was located in the Mediterranean fishing port of Vendres, not far from the Spanish border. The listing was being used as a holiday home for a French couple, but we were told they hadn’t visited in a few months. We parked our car in a small parking lot located in the center of the lively town. As I opened my car door, I was immediately hit with the smell of salty sea air. I closed my eyes and let the sun warm my face. Coming from gray and rainy Pittsburgh, this was the exact kind of location we were searching for. Something bright, sunny and just all around different. Looking around the space, people were going about their daily chores, baguettes sticking out of woven market sacs, small white paper bags from the pharmacy swinging from their sun-tanned arms. “I like that this is an active town,” I said, closing my car door. We had talked to enough agents now to understand that some towns are vacation spots and aren't really “working” towns on the off season. We definitely wanted to buy in a town that had residence all year round and business that didn’t shutter in the winter. “It’s funny how the colors of the towns change from area to area. Cordes had kinda darker shades and dark stones. Here, it’s all light colored sandstones and pale oranges. It all feels really beachy,” he said, locking the car door. He was right. For only being two hours away from each other, the towns had a completely different feel. Olive and cypress trees randomly lined the streets and bushes of rosemary and thyme dotted any free patch of ground surrounding the sidewalks and businesses. The home was located only a three minute walk up a tiny, tanned brick path, shaded by lightly colored village homes, all sandwiched one after another, making it look like one long building on each side with multiple doors and windows appearing at random. As we walked up the path, each occupant was preparing for the day, bustling around their kitchens, their lightly linen draped, open windows showing the scenes inside. When we reached the top of the hill, we were surprised to find a large open space, used as a terrasse by the two connected homes, one of them being the “Scandi home.” A small alley jetted off at the top of the hill to the left, leading to a large residence that shared a wall with the “Scandi home,” and continued on to share another with a small church that sat at the end of the path. “Wonder how much sound seeps through these stone walls?” I asked Andy, walking to the edge of the small courtyard and looking out. It felt very secluded and private for having the bustling town just minutes away. “You’ve found it! Excellent!” An accented woman’s voice rang out over the large, open space. She stopped as she reached the top of the hill behind us to catch her breath. Michelle was a Norwegian agent who came to France in her twenties, fell in love and into real estate and then, just never left. I was starting to feel like that bio could be applied to almost every foreign agent we had worked with thus far. France just really had a way of gripping people and never letting go! “So, this is it!” She said, taking off her sunglasses and raising her hands towards the house in a silent “voíla!” It was so quiet in the tucked away terrasse that it almost felt too sacred to be talking so loud, as if we were disturbing the peace of this tiny corner of the town. I walked over to the group, hoping that would lower her octaves. “It’s great, but, this outdoor area, who exactly owns it?” Andy said, getting directly down to business. Michelle let out a sign, not waiting to address the home’s negatives in the first minute of meeting. “Alors, technically, it is your Parisian neighbors, BUT, they come maybe for one month a year. So, while it is their space and they had a deal with the previous owners to say they may place furniture outside of their door, they are never here and so the space can be used by you for most of the year.” “But we don’t plan to be here for most of the year,” I reminded her. She waved her hand away, dismissing my statement. “Well, you shall see! The neighbors are quite nice and very reasonable. I would believe the same deal they had with the other owners would be the same for you,” she said, trying to move past the outside and shuffle us inside the house. She unlocked the French doors and stretched them wide. “I wanted to get here a little bit earlier, so I could open the place up. Since the owners haven’t been here, the home hasn’t been aired out in a few months, but I hit a bit of traffic” she explained, walking inside the home and directly to the windows, throwing open the shutters in the living room. Light spilled in through the large windows, illuminating the tiny, musty space. The large, stone window ledges sat a foot off of the actual window, making it an ideal space for a few cushions and perfect window benches on both the inside or outside of the house. The shared dining room, living room space was small, but functional enough for two people looking only to spend their summers there. Different hues of red, thick brick made up the floor and continued into the kitchen, giving the home a sense of warmth we didn’t feel up north in Cordes. I was starting to realize that you rarely saw carpet in French homes, which I really appreciated and when you did see the floors covered, they were usually covered by lots and lots of large rugs. In the few homes we’ve seen, we noticed that in some rooms, rugs were layered one on top of another, giving the spaces a very eclectic bohemian feel. I made my way over to the large hand-painted built-in in the corner of the room, trying the latch.“What’s up with the built-in hutch?” I said, trying to gingerly jar it open with little success. “Ah, yes, it’s to hide the heating and electricity,” she said, making her way over to the doors. Michelle gave them a gentle nudge and they slowly swung open to reveal electrical boxes and meters. “Hm, not much in the way of storage then,” Andy said, glancing into the cupboard while walking past us and through a stone-lined entry way, into the kitchen. The kitchen was cheerful, with bright robin’s egg blue cabinets and long, light-colored tiled countertops that cascaded up the wall, creating a matching backsplash. I looked at Andy, trying to read his reaction to the room and could sense there were a few features that had him ready to reach for a crowbar and hammer. Despite being a creative and artsy mind, Andy was also quite handy and liked doing home improvement projects. The only issue that I had was that he would start these grand renovations and then get tied up in work for a few weeks or months at a time, depending on the size of the project. This usually left our home in a constant state of construction and made it difficult to live in, so the idea of living in two construction zones, each located on different continents, was completely non-negotiable for me. “How old is this stovetop? Does it work?” I asked, trying to flick on the switch with no results. “The propane tank is probably out,” Michelle said, opening the cupboards below. I stepped back to get a clear view of the inside. “So, wait, there is no oven!?” I replied, a bit shocked. “That seems very college dorm-y. How do they eat?” Andy had shuffled over after hearing my complaint. “No oven, who cares about that, they have an actual tank of gas sitting below the heating element!” Up until that point, we hadn’t seen a propane-tank stove top or stove, which we were about to find out, is actually very common in France. “Oh this old thing? Of course it’s here, where else would it be!?” Michelle replied, standing up with a shrug. “In the U.S.,” Andy started, but then paused, hating to be one of those people who compare everything to back home, “it would be outside with your gas grill, not in the house.” “If you want gas appliances in France, you must bring the gas to your appliances. There are no gas lines here. The homes and villages are far too old for this feature,” she explained. I stood between the two silently gaging Andy’s response. Ever since I’ve known Andy, he’s been terrified of fires to the point where you’d think he had actually been a victim of one and that is where all of his fears stem. In fact, when he was very, very young, he snuck down stairs in the middle of the night and turned on the T.V. and “Fire Starters” was playing. It wasn’t until little Andy had watched most of the movie that his dad had come down and found him intensely staring at the screen. Unfortunately, the damage had been done. From then on, Andy was obsessed with fire safety, so the thought of a propane tank living in his home was terrifying. “We could replace this old stove top with an electric top and add an oven here,” he said, pointing to where the tank was sitting. He turned around, considering the matter closed. “And this over here,” he walked across the kitchen, “is this a washer?” By now, Michelle was starting to understand that the typical things in France weren't so typical yet to us. “Having your washer in your kitchen is not that uncommon in France,” she said, placing her hand on the machine. “Around the corner here is a small storage area and a half bath,” she continued, disappearing around through the small doorway. I followed diligently behind her, sticking my head in the little door to the half bath and taking it all in. Again with the dark, dingy bathrooms. Why did most of the bathrooms in these French homes look like you would leave them more dirty than you entered? Of course, this was a huge step up from the Turkish toilets many tourists have come home warning friends and family about. To this day, however, I haven’t come across a bathroom with just a simple hole in the ground. It is said that they are being phased out and there aren’t too many left, so perhaps I never will. You know that your mindset is shifting, though, when you are convincing yourself to look past a tiny, mildew ridden closet bathroom because it’s better than a Turkish toilet alternative. We took turns turning around and going back down the small hallway and out of the kitchen, back to the main living space. With the doors and windows open, the living room area felt like a big patio. Salty breezes kept wafting in and the sun was so bright everything had a slight shimmer to it inside the home. Michelle looked out the front door. “Twenty minute bike ride to the Med!” She said, taking a deep breath of the breeze. “That is a feature none of the other properties we are seeing have!” I said to Andy, with a slight shrug. “Let’s go see the newly remodeled bathroom and the two bedrooms,” Michelle instructed, climbing the stairs. Once reaching the top, we had the option of four doors located off of a small hallway, two down the center of the wall or one door at each end. “Let’s start at the end and work our way down,” Michelle suggested, leading us into the main bathroom. The space was small, but redone tastefully, with a beautiful wood floor and light colored tiles that made the space feel not so cavernous, despite the beautiful stone arch protruding around the sink. “I really like this space,” I said, studying the arch. “And I really, really like how they kept this original feature and the colors and materials they used are timeless.” My mind went back to the few bathrooms we’ve seen so far. One with bright yellow tiles with dated green daisies, another tiled in gray, red and blue. Perhaps it is an American concept, but I wanted my bathroom to be relaxing and serene. Some of the color schemes we’ve encountered felt chaotic and seizure inducing. “Around the corner is your first bedroom,” Michelle introduced, standing in the doorway of the bathroom with her hand extended towards the next door. We followed her lead into the room and right then and there, we were greeted with our first encounter of French carpet! I looked down at the thin, indoor/outdoor brown carpet that lined the room. Wood paneled walls and ceiling enclosed the space, making it feel like you were sleeping in a cedar chest. A tiny window allowed small streams of light to barely illuminate the room. “What are your thoughts?” Michelle asked, unable to gauge our silent processing. “If I am being completely honest,” I started, not sure how candid was acceptable for the situation. Michelle nodded, encouraging my true opinions. “I don’t want to have carpet, but I feel like if you pull this up, it would be more wood, which normally I would love, but in this case…” Andy cut in, “It would literally feel like you were sleeping in a coffin.” Michelles eyes grew wide. Was this because she wasn’t used to absolute honesty? Was that not a culturally appropriate response? Or was it Andy’s dark humor that tripped her up. Were the French usually a bit more coy with their interest, or lack of? I wasn’t sure. “I think what Andy is trying to say is that, perhaps it would be too much wood,” I tried glossing over the comment and giving a more diplomatic answer. “I see,” she said. “Well, you could easily remove some of the wood paneling or you could pick a different material for the floors of course. My partner and I renovate homes on the side and in France they are very cheap to do compared to the U.S.” I looked at Andy and shook my head. “We made the agreement, no large scale renovations!” “Ripping up some paper-thin carpet and laying down something else isn’t large scale,” he said, trying to convince me. “Well, if you aren’t sure about this bedroom, the next one is the exact same,” Michelle exclaimed, moving us out into the hallway and into the next door. Both rooms shared a similar layout with the carpet, wood-paneled walls and paneled slanted ceilings, absolutely no closet space and a small window framed out in more wood. “Which one is technically the master?” Andy questioned. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to be funny. I squinted my eyes at him then turned to Michelle. “They are both the same size and layout, so the choice would be yours,” Michelle responded, leading us out to the hallway and into the last door. The room was a long, thin rectangle that was currently being used as storage. “So, is this space why the listing says three bedrooms?” I questioned. “Yes,” Michelle nodded. “This room could have a double bed and be used as a guest room for visitors.” “A double bed and literally nothing else,” Andy said, ducking his head into the door and then quickly out, writing the room off completely. “Is there a third floor?” Andy asked from the hallway, looking up. Michelle appeared next to him. “No, this is the final floor of this home. It is your neighbor who’s home extends on top of this story,” she replied, drawing an imaginary diagram with her index finger of the neighbors property extending onto ours. “So what happens if there is a leak in his property that gets into ours,” he questioned. I could already see where this was going. “Then it would be his responsibility to fix it,” Michelle concluded. “But what if it happens and we aren’t here for a few months and by the time we get back it has sat for too long,” he followed up. “All of this is taken care of in your homeowners insurance. I am sure it is very similar to what happens in the U.S.? Anyway, it is up to the other homeowner to pay for all damages.” “How far does their property extend onto ours,” he asked, looking back up at the ceiling. “Why don’t we go outside and take a look,” Michelle offered, trying to curb Andy’s unrest. When it came to personalities, Andy and I couldn’t be more opposite. I called him Mr. Doom and Gloom because of the way he always picked apart each situation and thought up every and all worse case scenarios that could be possible. For someone like me, however, who embraced more of a “we’ll figure it out as it comes” attitude, I think his detail oriented personality with my live in the moment demeanor really balanced each other out. He was the half glass empty to my overflowing glass full. In situations like this, I knew to just let him go and work through all of his anxieties in order to move past it. If you tried to skip over something that he was focused on, it would lead to over analyzing and continual debating for the next few days. Making our way outside of the house and down the small alley towards the church, it was clear that the neighboring home stretched the full length of the “Scandi home.” “Yeah, I don’t like the look of this,” Andy stated, neck craned and looking up. “I don’t like being at the mercy of someone else’s intelligence,” he added, taking a few steps back in order to get a deeper view. “What truly are the chances of this happening?” I asked him, trying to quell his fears. “Our luck would lean on the more than likely side,” he shot back. Sensing the ebb and flow of this home viewing, Michelle had a feeling this house was not the one. She pulled out her phone and opened her calendar. “I have another showing at 4 pm, why don’t we go get lunch and I can show you some of the other homes I have in the area. If anything peaks your interest, we can go for a visit.” It was the first time an agent had tried to wrangle us into a lunch date. I looked down at my phone to check the time. “We have to be at our next visit in an hour and have about a 30 minute drive to get there,” I said, looking at Andy for backup. While this was the first time a showing was potentially extending into a lunch rendez-vous, we did have other agents try and take us back to their office to show us more homes. I hated feeling like the impatient, impolite Americans, but I had scheduled our time so precisely that we had multiple showings on each day in different towns with different agents, not leaving us too much time for exploration or being side tracked. I had also scoured each agent's website before making the trip, making sure we didn’t want to hit up any other showings before leaving the area. I already knew there wasn’t anything I wanted to see, but how to say all of this without being rude? “This home has a lot of positives,” I started, “and I think it’s only fair to go on our other home visit and sleep on it and then get back to you tomorrow morning,” I concluded with a nod, proud of myself for the diplomatic response. “But wouldn’t you be on your way to your next destination, didn’t you say Avignon?” she responded, desperately clinging to the time she had with us. “We will, but we are here to buy a home and if we like a home enough, we will extend our stay to visit again and continue the discussions about an offer,” I reassured her. “It’s still early in our journey. I’m not even sure we’ve seen enough to know what we exactly want or like, but with each viewing, it will become more clear,” I finished, feeling as though I had been codling her. “I understand,” she said, nodding. Andy, who had walked away to inspect more angles of the overlapping houses, came back to the terrasse. “We must get going or we wouldn’t make our next appointment,” I reminded him. He turned to Michelle. “Thank you so much for taking the time to show us this home,” he said, extending his hand. They shook and we waved goodbye as we started back down the hill to our car. “There is no way I would feel comfortable having someone live on top of me and us be gone for months at a time,” he said, stating his case. “I know, I know. You don’t have to convince me, that isn’t "the one",” I replied with a sharp head shake. “To the English B and B then, shall we!” he said, in ridicules accented English. I took one last wiff of sea salted air. "We shall!" I replied, getting into the car.
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**Above is our journey from the Spanish boarder through the whole south and all the stops in between. You may notice Vaison is not marked, it was a totally by chance we ended up there!
AuthorBonjour, Ciao, Salut! I'm Rachel and this is my story documenting our experience buying a home in France. If you are looking for advice on home buying, feel free to e-mail me or check the bottom of the home page for a link to a basic guide. Archives
July 2023
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