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We started looking for a new home a few weeks ago. This was a difficult decision, fueled by a desire to prepare for the future rather than by dissatisfaction with what we have for today. In short, we know that we’d like to have more land, more space, and more privacy, so even though we’ve made ourselves extremely comfortable in our current home, we’re officially looking to upgrade.

The news from the real estate front is this: you can ignore whatever you’ve read about a recession. The California housing market is still insane, same as it ever was.

We toured a property that fit most of our criteria, and even had a lot more land than we need. The price seemed fair (by which I mean, it was about 3x what it would cost anywhere else in America). But the house was trashed; what the realtors called “cosmetic” shortcomings translated to roughly $20,000 worth of improvements that would need to happen before we could move in. Specifically: the carpets were disgusting. Several cats and uncounted herds of local fauna had had the run of the place for weeks, due to the broken pet-door. Most rooms were littered with half-packed boxes and stacks of junk — it was unclear whether the sellers had actually moved out, even though the property was listed as “vacant;” maybe they’d all just gotten lost in the 8 acres of waist-high weeds that constitute the yard, and would return home to finish packing as soon as they get their bearings.

I was entertained to see, amid the wreckage, a copy of a book called How to pack. It looked unused.

Over 1000 square feet of asbestos ceilings would need to be removed. The vinyl kitchen floor had split and been repaired with duct tape. The paint on the bathroom ceiling was shredded, hanging down in sheets. And the water had so much iron in it, metal stalagmites were forming in the bathtub. That was particularly gross.

Without question, the house had potential. Over time, we would be able to turn it into something great. But the first five years would be a painful compromise, living with an outdated miniature kitchen, a dozen leaky single-pane windows, and electrical wiring that one realtor described as “bizarre”.

But we didn’t have an opportunity to even make an offer, for the place had sold — above listing price — before we’d even seen it.