Of course there are a few things that need to be answered. You know, like who owns the crazy outbuilding on the property boundary. It has not one but two posters of four women with thong underpants riding Harleys? We hope it's on "our" property so we can reclaim the space and make it a workshop and garage. But we concede that the land is so beautiful, we'd almost consider putting up with a pervert with a heart of gold who collects scrap metal and fantasizes about make-believe women, to live there.
We go home with that sense of love. I tell Roger that looking for land is like wanting to fall in love. We open our hearts. We hope we ask the right questions. We believe in first impressions. Then our agent starts emailing us the news: The garage is owned by some guy who comes up once a week. The water supply is an unreliable hand-dug spring. The septic is handmade and has been cited twice by the county. The property has an earthquake faultline running through it.
Holy shit, says we.
And we are reminded of a poem by Lawrence Ferlinghettii:
See
it was like this when
we waltz into this place
a couple of Papish cats
is doing an Aztec two-step
And I says
Dad let’s cut
but then this dame
comes up behind me see
and says
You and me could really exist
Wow I says
Only the next day
she has bad teeth
and really hates
poetry
1. Top photo, the cabin
2. Bottom photo, the wood-fired sauna building taken from the cabin deck



