The Real Estate Blog

It seems all of us (or at least most of us) here at One Fine Philly have recently relocated or will soon. I'm jumping into the fray -- my lease isn't up until end of December, but there are a lot more properties on the market now than there will be over the Xmas-New Year's holiday. And who really wants to move New Year's Day? I plan to cultivate quite a hangover, and I wouldn't want relocation plans interfering.

Anyway, I was looking in the South of Federal, East of Broad area. Italian Market, Bella Vista, call it what you will -- it's where I work (!Employment = Yay!) and it's convenient to public transportation. But the neighborhood is apparently a little to up-and-came, and I need more up-and-coming, financially speaking. With a job in arts, it simply isn't wise to have rent exceed 3 weeks' pay. Although I do like pasta ... and cereal. My beer tastes are a bit more refined, though, so I can't exactly spend ALL my money on rent.

A dear friend lives in Point Breeze, and I've admired her house the whole time I've known her. Gorgeously rehabbed, on a fairly quiet side street, with a deluxe kitchen, back yard, finished basement, central air, and laundry room ... it's a dream! Point Breeze has a bad rap as a drug drop zone -- apparently, the mafia would drop the drugs right on Point Breeze Ave. and the dealers would head up and down that street, delivering to the north and south. Fun! But when I've visited at night, I've met with friendly older generations sitting on their front steps, watching as children play and talking quietly. I've been introduced to at least six new neighbors in two visits. And more importantly, I've been able to imagine Luke playing in the nearby park, riding his bike down the side streets, and playing with kids his age.

So when a house that was EXACTLY like my friend's, rehabbed by the same owner, became available, I jumped! Unfortunately, I should have jumped a couple of weeks earlier -- someone had put a deposit down right before me, but because of a mix-up I thought for a day and a half that I had the place. Talk about letdown! I consoled myself with the distance from the Broad Street line and the necessity of cabs late at night. Still, it felt like a blow -- I had started thinking about where my furniture would go, what colors to paint the walls ... the works.

Just tonight I found another house in the neighborhood. Different owner this time, but SAME BLOCK as my friend, on her sweet side street. Not quite as nice a rehab, but still very nice ... and somewhat cheaper rent, which is all good! I refuse to get my hopes up as high as they were, but I still find myself thinking ...

could this be home?

Maybe this is all too intimate to be interesting, dear readers. But I do know this: we all feel the pull of a place that's more than just where we keep our stuff. A place we can curl up and feel comfort. A place to bring friends, a place to bring family. A place that wraps us in its arms at the end of a rough day, where we can say, "it's good to be home."

I'm hoping that by the New Year, I'll be home.

Starting Anew

It's been an exhausting and stressful few days, but I am officially moved and am writing from my new office in my new South Philly row home. Just in time for the 30-day blogger challenge, I have internet access and am ready to go. I may be surrounded by unpacked boxes and not be able to find the proper kitchen utensils when I need them, but by noon the day after the move, we were already cruising on the internet superhighway. I have my priorities.

Since the day of the move, I've been reminded how completely awful moving is. I've moved seven times in the last seven years. I stayed in a couple of apartments more than a year, but I also moved in less than a year a couple of times as well. I am so done moving. Granted, I said the same thing last year, but I believe it this time. Last year's move was to a smaller place--but it was cheaper and it allowed pets, two things we desperately wanted. We thought we could be happy there for at least a couple of years. However, the apartment proved to be just too small. My husband is an artist, and he didn't realize how important having a space to work--even just a table in a corner--was until he no longer had one. It just wasn't possible for him to have a designated work space in our old apartment. Now, we have a three-bedroom row home. I have my own office--a space to write and work on the crafty projects that have been brewing in my head. My husband has a studio. The two of us and our dog could each have a floor to ourselves for the evening if we so desired. Glorious, glorious space.

The last two nights we went back to West Philly to finish cleaning our old apartment. I knew I would feel sad being back in that space, but I wouldn't have predicted the rush of pure emotion that overcame me that first night. As a looked around the empty rooms, I saw the blue paint that we picked out together and spent sweaty nights applying to the living room walls just a year ago. I saw the only home our dog knows with us, our first apartment as a married couple.

"We only lived here a year," Tim said when he saw my eyes swell with tears.
"I know," I said in a gasping-for-air-staccato as I began to cry, "but this place just has so many memories."

We had to go over there again last night to mop and clean out the refridgerator.
"Are you going to be okay?" Tim asked me in the car on the way over.
"I don't know," I said. "I thought I was going to be okay last night, and that clearly wasn't the case."

Last night I was okay until right before we left when we had the car loaded with final miscellaneous items from the basement, the refridgerator shelves sparkling and the floors mopped as clean as they were going to get. Tim and I stood in the doorway of our bedroom. The yellow walls I painted last summer still looked sunshine happy. Tim whispered goodbye to the apartment, and a lone tear began to trickle down my cheek. He put his arm around me, and I buried my face in his chest; physically exhausted from our week and sad to leave, I gave the place one last cry.

"As long as we're together, we'll be home," Tim said.
I knew he was right. We were about to start a new chapter. Together.