The meaning of life is a question that has been asked for centuries. And I don’t claim to know the answer. But I think I know what it’s not—Working too many hours while struggling through yet another winter in New York. I think the last straw broke at around 5:30 PM on a December evening in 2022. I sat in my car for 90 minutes, waiting for the ice to melt on my windshield so I could drive home, thinking that this wouldn’t be happening if I lived in California or Florida.
Of course I didn’t have one of those ice scraper thingies. Please, I’ve only lived here my whole life. Real New Yorkers don’t use them. We complain about the ice but we don’t use common sense or smart tools.
Travel has always healed me, both physically and emotionally. I don’t know why, but I feel lighter when I’ve been away and back again. For me, there has never been a better remedy than a distant shore.
I needed to break out of my rut and I needed to do it immediately. So on my way home I called a friend in California, told her I was going to make this happen, that I’m committing to it, that I needed to feel more alive, and that I’d be her neighbor soon. As soon as I got home, determined me, I started looking for house rentals in the California desert. And promptly became very depressed at what I couldn’t afford.
Three long weeks I searched, only to come up empty-handed. I wouldn’t give up. I couldn’t.
And then I saw it, and absolutely gorgeous house, 3 bedroom, 2.5 baths, 1900 square feet (a mansion compared to my NY apartment), with its own little pool and spa (hot tub for those who aren’t California desert folk), all built just a few years ago. And it was only $3500/month.
It must me a typo. Other houses were going for more than twice that. I sent in a message to the real estate broker, telling her every way to contact me imaginable, and a few minutes later the ad was gone.
Was this a scam? Was the universe toying with me? I went to sleep, disheartened but not beaten.
The next day, I got a text from the realtor asking if I had a minute to speak. She was a Southern belle who moved to California from Georgia, told me her whole life story in 20 minutes, and I listed intently because I really wanted that house. After hearing about how her aunt Millie’s mint was growing, I asked her if the house was still available. It wasn’t. It was being taken off the market because it was also up for sale and they just accepted and offer.
And the low price? That was kind of a mistake. It was accidentally listed as a furnished vacation rental but that low price was actually because it was a yearly unfurnished rental.
But given that the house sale was closing in 3 months, the realtor said that I could have the house furnished for those 3 months for $4500/month. This was a real stretch for me. I’m not rich. But I had to get out of town, so I went for it.