Hidden Gems
We keep full-time jobs and part-time dreams, sprinting between them with a phone full of listings that promise “hidden gems.” On weekends we run for the station, still half on work calls, and throw ourselves onto whatever train will take us to the next maybe. Sometimes that train moves at ten kilometers an hour for reasons no one can explain. Sometimes its engine and brakes are not on speaking terms. Sometimes we’re fifty minutes late and already texting the agent: so sorry, still on our way.
“Fifteen minutes from the station,” the listing says. Fifteen minutes can mean a sunny stroll, or thirty minutes along a forest road where wild boar consider their options in the middle of your lane. We don’t have a car yet, so it’s Uber—when Uber exists. The app is confident days in advance and then coy an hour before, then thirty minutes, then five. Or silent. There’s sometimes a taxi, if you can find a number. And if it happens to be on their route. The driver shows up smiling, narrates the town’s entire recent history (it was better before they removed the fountain, traffic is a nightmare now), and quotes the 20-minute ride at 51€, card accepted. She reminds us we’ll need a ride back, too, (you’ll have to coordinate that with my office though).
The agent must be a saint, she waits through our lateness. Although it’s hard to hear her over the autoroute that roars a few feet from the front gate. There’s no sidewalk, just a dash across a busy road and a hedge that does not, as advertised, “soften the sound.” We nod bravely as a truck hammers by.
Inside, the photos and the rooms do not entirely recognize each other, but we are learning not to be alarmed by cosmetic surprises. Or at least not to show it. The ceiling is cracked, yes, but only because of the ancient way they built the interior roof: dirt. Dirt and plaster. Plaster with little sticks pressed in. Over time it sags under the weight. The weight of the dirt. We repeat: do not be alarmed.
The roof was “recently redone,” which is true. By the owner, which is also true. With the wrong wood, which is unfortunate. So the roof needs to be redone. There is asbestos in the old tiling, which the roofers are not allowed to touch. But you can hire a different guy to bag the asbestos and then it’s fine. Two different guys for the roof. We say this twice so we don’t forget.
Heating is fuel—actual oil—old-school and, we are told, forbidden in five years. There is a fireplace, which is romantic in theory but apparently should not be used until we install a tubed chimney inside the existing one or the house could burn down. We pencil in: romance later, chimney first.
Down the hall, a bedroom offers “potential” in the way that only a curtain hiding exposed plumbing can. “Perfect for a future bathroom,” the agent says. There are no windows. Or ventilation. We nod the way people nod at modern art they do not fully understand.
We step outside to the outbuildings. The barn is huge, maybe too huge, and alive. An owl lives here, has lived here, and expresses himself in exactly the same spot every day. We are careful with the ladder. Just high enough up to take a peak at the upper level. Some boards in the rafters have given up on their dreams, but that’s fine because we can’t really get up there anyway. Someone mentions the mayor and a rule about no converting of agricultural buildings to commercial use. We practice keeping our faces neutral.
Septic systems in the countryside have their own mythology. This one may or may not be connected to anything. Its exact location is unspecified, like a family secret. “It’s only a small fine if the city inspector comes,” we hear. “Four hundred euros.” They probably won’t come often. At least once a year. We are invited to plan for 400€/year until the entire septic is replaced, which is an elegant way to say: hello, line item.
We look toward the property borders. The neighbors are “nice,” especially their sheep, which sometimes visit to eat things. If we are not into that, we could put up a gate. The blackberries, meanwhile, have taken the place in their prickled embrace and make no promises about letting go.
On the ride back to the station, the driver asks if we found what we were looking for. We giggle and say we’re making a list, but really we’re writing a story we don’t know the ending to yet. It starts with two people working full-time and racing toward a house that might be a treasure and might be a lesson. It features a train that limps, an agent who waits, ceilings made of dirt, two different guys for the roof, and an owl with impeccable habits. And it ends where it always begins: with us scrolling through listings that claim another hidden gem. One more chance to step off a late train, squint past the hedge, and decide whether the noise in our heads is fear, excitement, or just the autoroute. Next weekend, we’ll go and find out.
Artwork by Camille Pissarro, Photo by Benjamin Schwartz