I’d never stepped foot on Northern California soil before flying out with my husband to look for homes. Here is what I knew about Northern California:
1) It was sunny – a lot.
2) My husband’s job was in a city called, Sunnyvale.
3) The cost of living vastly outweighed where we were currently living (Cleveland, OH) – which didn’t make me feel too ‘sunny.’
4) We were going to be living on the other side of the country – away from my relatives and friends. If it were up to my Italian mother, I might as well be moving to the sun – because that’s how far away I’d be from her.
We scoured areas and communities within the vicinity of Sunnyvale – but to no avail. Nothing peaked our interest. Seriously? I liked a good shag carpet – but not one that still had cigarette ashes mashed into its fibers from the Nixon era. I loved food – but didn’t want to be so close to another house that I could reach over and grab my neighbor’s fries off their plate from my kitchen window. Where would we find a place that wasn’t too urban, but not exactly located in the middle of cow pastures and tumble weeds? Were our expectations raised too high to even believe that we had any options when buying in California? Our criteria was simple, to choose a house that was:
1) Near great schools.
2) Within a thriving and active community.
3) A place that was both a little bit country and a little bit rock n’ roll.
4) A place that had a decent commute to Sunnyvale.
Did such a community exist? Would we just end up renting a condo? It was looking bleak. We’d have to expand our search. Pleasanton, we were told, was a great city to look for potential homes and to raise a family.
We found our Pleasanton realtor, a great guy with a humble disposition, who also knew the area better than most, because he was a Pleasanton native. Bill Wells drove us around town, describing each little nook and cranny, each little nuance between ‘that’ neighborhood and ‘this’ neighborhood. For a good idea of the different neighborhoods within Pleasanton, The Gamache Team of realtors have put together a useful Google Maps site that describes each neighborhood in Pleasanton by color-coded districts. Click here for a view. Bill described the rich history of “P-Town” and repeatedly told us how much people LOVED living in this city. I had to believe that there was more to this little town than was meeting my sheltered Midwest girl’s eyes.
I waited for someone to tell me that P-town only looked perfect from the outside, and that there was in fact a seedy underbelly raring to pop out as soon as we signed on the dotted line. I waited for someone to confess that in fact the schools were beefing up their spotless reviews and possibly forcing their students to pretend that they loved being a student at {insert Pleasanton school here}. Every time I spoke with someone about Pleasanton – their eyes would light up and the gushing would begin. I’d try to instead talk about wineries, theatre, music… vacuuming – anything else to get these P-Town-obsessed people to stop their frenzied talk about their hometown. This was too surreal. How could a town be so perfect? They, the locals, were all in on the ploy to get us to move to this wonderfully perfect place, I surmised. This was all one big cover up, I thought, just like the movie, The Stepford Wives – a seemingly perfect society hiding a deep, dark secret. Paranoia was setting in. P-town could not really be as perfect as everyone said it was, could it?
We flew home. I was ready to stay put in Ohio and suffer blistering winters, gray skies year-round, the sinking economy, potholes at every turn, and bad sports teams (kidding!). The quality of living in California was not going to be conducive to our expectations. We landed in a humid-thick thunderstorm and drove home. We slumped our luggage down. What next? Should we stay in Ohio until we could find a place, or rent in California? Our phone rang. It was our friendly realtor, Bill Wells. “We have a house that just came on the market – and I think you’re going to like it.”
I flew out by myself, drove to the hotel, and slept like I hadn’t slept in years. The next day I was to meet with Bill and see the house. Everything was smooth sailing so far. Before we met, I walked around downtown for a little bit. People walking along the sidewalks were still smiling. How could they have known I was going to be visiting again? I walked past the Rose Hotel. John Madden, Pro Football Hall of Famer, I learned was the proud owner of this little gem. I wondered why Mr. Madden would love this quiet town so much. Mr. Madden would not dare live in a town that was hiding a deep, dark secret, would he? My feet kept walking past restaurants, tree-lined streets, people-filled parks and lovingly maintained homes. The locals all smiled and waved everywhere I turned. They were not expecting me to be there – so they didn’t have time to prepare to fool me into thinking this was the perfect town. I tricked them. I came back. But… things never changed. The daily happenings were still the same. Kids playing soccer, swimming, biking, laughing. Adults strolling at a carefree pace. Life was very, very pleasant indeed.
The house our realtor found for us was quite cozy. It settled upon a hill with views of the beautiful mountains. My husband and kids wanted to know what I thought. I stood at the window and looked down into the beautiful little town and smiled. “I love the house. I love it here.” I realized then that my eyes probably took on the same glow as those I’d recently accused of being ‘P-Town obsessed.’ But, these locals were all right. This town had heart. It was indeed perfect in every way. This town was a place we would easily be able to call “home.”
Write Your Heart Out. Then Write Some More. 