As a kid, my favorite magazine was Architectural Digest. My parents had a subscription to the aspirational tome, and by the time I was tall enough to reach the mailbox they never read an issue that hadn’t been soiled by my sticky, Nutter Buttered fingers of want. I was addicted to real-estate porn long before the term had been coined, before I even knew what real estate was. Not porn, though, I knew the ins and outs of that pretty early on and those were pre-internet days. As a parent in 2018, I’m pretty much sure we’re all fucked.
I’d pore over the glossy pages and carefully select that month’s dream house. Then, I’d pull out the encyclopedic-thick Sears catalog and the cartoon-sized calculator my mom used for balancing the checkbook and get to work. I’d pick out the tables and chairs for the kitchen, the hutch and coffee table for the living room, wingbacks for the salon, bookshelves for the library, Silver Spoon race-car beds for the kids rooms, the crib and changing table for the nursery, china and stemware for the dining room, a pair of twin chaise lounges for the solarium and a pool table just for fun. I’d add it all up and present the cost of my dream house to my mom. It usually hovered around 600 dollars. Fuzzy math, yes, but I was, like, 8. I didn’t have time to check my work- I had Nutter Butters to eat.
So a year and a half ago, when Billy and I decided that we had to, somehow, some way, come back to Spain, I started looking at houses to rent with all of the diligence of my 8-year-old self. And, man, did I find a gem.
I don’t know why I love houses so much. Living in New York, even though I rented for two decades and had less than 20% to put down on a bicycle, let alone a stately colonial with mature trees, I had four different searches on Zillow dutifully feeding my inbox. I’d wake up after a night of slinging drinks with a throbbing head and throbbing hands, tug my laptop into bed and be transported out of all of the bullshit. Maybe I was picturing a different life for myself; maybe I just got off on picturing the different lives of the people that lived in these houses. What drew me to them? Was it the story I wanted to write or the story that had already been written?
And, at this point, I just have to pause and apologize for these journal entries I keep trying to disguise as travel blogs. I’m sick of the sound of my own voice, too, but we’re here now, what are we going to do, start talking about the Moorish influence on this castle?
It’s been raining since we got to the white-washed Andalusian hill town of Jimena De La Frontera. (I’m trying.) The sun occasionally bursts through for the money shot (nope- going back to porn) but mostly it’s rainy with a chance of downpour. Thankfully, we have this house to keep us dry, warm and entertained. And playgrounds. Lots of playgrounds.
The shelves are stacked with books - in English! Hemingway, a lot of suspenseful war page-turners – not exactly my cup of tea, but I drink coffee so what the fuck do I know? I opened up a random cabinet and found a towering stack of National Geographics and nearly wept with gratitude. In my sleuthing I came across a book of children’s poems with an inscription dated 1904. Every night I read from it to the kids (and Billy) before they go to sleep like it’s my own open mic, delighting in the fact that they don’t know how to hate on sincerity yet and Billy can’t tell me to stop. Because that would be rude. And we’re in a magical fucking moment.
We’ve stayed in a lot of homes in our pretend house-hunting. Sometimes it’s clear that the owner is crashing with a friend and just shoved all her stuff into the closet, other times it’s a shell of a place that only exists to serve Airbnb and it’s subscribers. But sometimes you come across a place that is completely alive even though it’s not lived in. Distinctly somebody else’s but 100% your own. This is one of those places. Like a mystery you’re entitled to investigate.
There are two fireplaces, a wood burning stove, heaters in every room and a clawfoot bathtub that you can fill to the brim without the hot water running out. I can't quite express how much I appreciate staying in a home that prioritizes heat like I do. There's a plunge pool in the courtyard which we'll never use because it's fucking freezing, but just the fact that it's there makes me happy. When we arrived, the fires were burning and everything smelled of wood smoke and rain. I turned to Billy and said, "Who cares about the weather? I could spend the whole month cozied up to a fire, making soup and reading books." Turns out, I can't. I think I've lost the ability to chew and I'm starting to seriously be concerned about our lack of Vitamin D. But on the upside, we can still day trip in the rain, I've finally learned how to drive stick and I have a working handle on the geopolitical climate of Russia and Germany circa 1980-1982 (thank you, Nat Geo).
This place is luxurious without being fancy. Old without being spooky. We could never afford it in the long term - I don’t understand how anybody affords anything in the long term - I don’t think I actually understand the term, long term. But we’re here for a month. And it’s my dream house. Somebody pass me a Nutter Butter.
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