Let me start with the good: I’m so grateful my Friday work location can be flexible. We parked at a cafe in Santa Cruz so we could keep a couple appointments to look at places that day, presumably before anyone else had a chance to scoop up the spots. So that was good. At one point we found ourselves at arches state beach, streaming wifi from my phone and getting our work done under the eucalyptus.
I can’t tell you what all happened Monday through Thursday, because work has just been work. We walk to work most days, work like crazy people, can’t remember what we got done, and then sleep and do it all again the next day. The walk is definitely the best part, although catching up with our Californian colleagues and transplant friends has been super nice. I hope that continues once we find our spot.
So then the weekend. We scheduled some rental interviews on Sunday and actually had a really nice day watching surfers in between our supplications to prospective landlords.
I’ll try to explain briefly: one of our California dreams was to live on the beach (duh) if we could find and affordable place. Well, after stumbling onto a $1m open house for a 482sf gem *ack!*, we pretty quickly released that dream. But then through the miracle of craigslist, we found one. It was perfect in every way: beachfront but not on a busy road, updated to the point of actual luxury, and only 3 miles to our shuttle pickup for work. Psh, we’ll bike that no probs, we thought.
Short story, the landlord is beyond anal. He wanted a single person, not a couple. This is surprisingly common out here. Shockingly, even. We tried everything: offered to be backup contacts for his vacation rental upstairs, offered more of a security deposit, even more rent per month for having a second person. He was interested, and we were excited, but then finally after explaining the situation to my mom and 2 friends, I realized renting from him seems like far more trouble than I want. And also 650 extra bucks out of my pocket for all my trouble. When finally this morning he told me my persistence was stupid, my head caught up to what my heart already knew: fuck this guy.
So, the next option is what one dear friend would call a hippie trap: beautiful quiet setting…in sort of a commune-like complex. It’s not updated. Not luxurious. 10 miles from the beach. But so quiet. The first thing I heard was the wind chimes (hanging on the communal laundry outbuilding). And I could garden there. And touch the huge (huge!!) redwoods right by our deck. It’s a bit shabby, but I think with some elbow grease and a lot of visits to apartment therapy, it could be sort of nice. And no anal landlords breathing down my neck.
So yeah, hippie trap it may be. And that might be perfect.
Bottom line: living on the beach, over two grand plus the cost of my car getting broken into at the downtown bus stop, plus the stress of an anal landlord. Living in the redwoods hippie trap? Cheap. Er, I mean priceless. Yeah.