Everything Was Huge, Part One

There comes a time, usually at the end of August, when I become obsessed with the idea- at least for a short while- that a nice home in the country is exactly what I need. This fantastical domestic scenario offers instant if somewhat subdued nirvana with a working fireplace and no mosquitoes. In such a fairy place troubles dissipate like delicate soap bubbles that have popped into quiet oblivion with a silent, peaceful ping, and suddenly all becomes well. Serenely I gaze out onto lush fields of clover and hollyhock and thank my lucky stars.

  

Needless to say, this fantasy leads to all sorts of improbable excursions, long road trips into the land of late summer farm stands and spurious For Sale signs. It is here that one encounters picturesque, old red barns, antique dinner plates hanging raffishly askew on uneven walls, smallish rooms with checkered curtains, cozily flooded basements, toilets that don’t always flush and lots of dubious new construction that beckons as the alternative to all that charm.

As a result of such meanderings I once looked at a condo where everything was huge, really, really, really huge, totally out of scale for ordinary, mortal home dwellers. And I do mean everything, walls, ceilings, fixtures, even people and voices. It was the weirdest thing.

It started out several years ago on one of those exceptionally promising weekend mornings in early fall when the sun hints at all things wonderful and the notion of mortality temporarily recedes; only great enterprises seem possible on those days, even in real estate, or especially in real estate, given what was going on in the market at the time. It was quite early in the morning, and I had just gotten out of bed, not really awake yet, still deciding what to do with the day and perhaps the rest of my life when the realtor called.

Good morning! Did I wake you? What are you doing today? Are you free? C,mon up! This is too good to pass on, he said- you’ve been looking for a while now and we both know these kinds of places are few and far between- it won’t last long (he let his voice trail off here in that special realtor way).  Can you make it up here by noon?

This incident took place in the early days of the boom, when there was widespread, palpable panic about “finding a place,” that magical spot somewhere, anywhere, other than where you presently lived and breathed- your smartest investment in lifestyle and the road to eternal security.  I immediately knew what I had to do, and do it fast; there was little time to waste; anyone could beat you out on a sweet deal like this and I didn’t want to spend the rest of my days regretting losing something I already was in love with, despite never having seen it.

So I jumped into the shower, did a much abbreviated shampoo and skipped the conditioner, even though the forecast predicted an excessively hot and humid day and I was desperately in need of a trim- why had I let it go so long? Dressing as fast as I could, I barely had time to grab a pair of tiny earrings before starting up the car, but in my haste I dropped one of the little backs from the earring post under the dresser and had to spend another two or three frantic minutes scavenging for it. Clearly this was a sign of some sort, an augury to be sure, but I paid no heed. In the end I was feeling a bit sticky, dusty and overheated but ready to face whatever might ensue, my locks still quite damp, not really sure how it all was going to turn out- the hair or the property- yet feeling lucky. . . .