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I've had a recurring dream lately. In it, I'm getting
out of my car with my two kids in front of a house in
Chevy Chase. But when I walk up to the door, arms full
of groceries and baby and a preschooler needing to use
the bathroom, the keys don't fit in the lock. As I jiggle
them with increasing desperation ("I have to go
potty!"), the key chain disintegrates in my hand.
You don't need a clinical Ph.D. to see where this is
coming from. Although we practically have dual residency
in Boston and Washington, my family is, in fact, about
to become homeless. We're being relocated to the D.C.
area for my husband's work, and even as we're approaching
the sale of our Boston house, we can't seem to clinch
a new one here.
We've been house hunting since last summer, when Tom's
company asked him to relocate to the Washington area.
Bethesda, Chevy Chase and Northwest D.C. have been the
focus of our search, communities that appeal to both
of us and are an easy commute to his Rockville office.
By my best guess, I've been in and out of 100 houses,
and Tom easily twice as many. He began working in his
new office in January, and has been commuting from Boston
half the week since then.
Our home search works something like this: Each week,
he tours the new listings with our real estate agent
and e-mails me digital photos. On Sundays, I fly down
to see the best of what he's liked and check out anything
new. Early in the week, we bid. Sometimes we actually
fly down together, and my parents often watch our two
children, ages 3 and 1. My parents are doing a pretty
good job of hiding their impatience, but they can't
understand what's taking us so long. After all, they
moved around a lot in their early years. When you get
relocated, the company flies you out for a weekend and
you buy the best thing you see. Why can't you just find
something that works well enough, and grab it?
It's a good question. We ask ourselves the same thing
every week, when I fly down with a blank check in my
pocket and a knot in my stomach.
We have some specific needs, but I don't think they're
unrealistic: Four bedrooms, all on the second floor,
or one in a renovated attic. A first-floor playroom.
A home office, which could double as a guest room. A
close-knit neighborhood in a good school district. Something
in move-in condition, because we'd rather not deal with
huge renovations along with finding new doctors, babysitters,
friends.
Not so much to ask, I thought. But in the close-in Washington
housing market, you'd think we were looking for the
Holy Grail.
We began looking in the $700,000-$800,000 range, which
in our Boston suburb would get the job done, but revised
our budget upward almost immediately. Home prices in
metropolitan Washington are continuing to increase at
a rate that's among the highest in the country. Nationally,
median home prices increased 6.5 percent for the first
quarter of 2004 over first quarter 2003, according to
the National Association of Realtors.
But in the Washington area, triple it: The rate of increase
was 19 percent — which ranks behind places like
San Bernardino (32.9 percent) and Las Vegas (31.3 percent),
but outpaces San Francisco (17.3 percent), New York
(12.2 percent) and our own Boston (5.6 percent), where
we're finding it to be far less of a seller's market.
Washington's strong employment rate doesn't help matters.
There's only 3 percent unemployment in the D.C. region,
compared to 5.7 percent nationally, which means that
while jobs are faltering elsewhere, people are flocking
to work in Washington — and competing for the limited
housing pool.
Banterers of conventional wisdom warn that the end is
near, that the real estate market is reaching its peak
and approaching a slowdown. But we haven't seen evidence
of it yet.
Our Realtors are sympathetic; our timing is rotten.
"The market in the past year has been very unbalanced,
fabulous for sellers and incredibly difficult for buyers,"
says Nancy Taylor, who works as a team with her husband,
son and son-in-law at Long & Foster. "Interest
rates have been down, and people feel that investing
in real estate is a safe place for their money. People
who have houses are staying in place, creating a low
inventory of available homes, and those who need to
buy a house in the area don't have a lot of choice.
So there are higher prices and incredible pressure on
the buyer, who is asked to do things no reasonable buyer
would do."
Case in point, the sidewalk sleepovers I read about
in the Washington Post. It seems that in the
close-in suburbs, otherwise sane people have been camping
out for days for the chance to buy into new developments
in the $700,000-plus range. Things aren't much better
for existing homes. Hop on the open house circuit, and
you'll see buyers circling the same listings in a high-stakes
game of musical chairs, most of them walking away like
birthday party losers. Bidding wars for houses in move-in
condition jack up the selling price to 10 percent or
more over the asking price. We have offered well over
the asking price again and again.
I'm now in my ninth month of house hunting, which looks
like it will not culminate in obstetric delight. Sometimes
I wonder if there's anything we should be doing differently,
if we've somehow brought on bad karma. The only thing
I can point to is this: Early last summer, we were actually
in the process of buying a new house in the Boston area.
We'd outgrown our starter home, and planned to make
this new house our stay-forever home. I trumpeted it
in an e-mail to friends: "Put this one in ink!
This is our last time in cardboard boxes."
You just can't tempt the gods that way. The next day,
amid the moving trucks and the dual closings, Tom found
out that his company was launching a new division in
Washington, and they wanted him to head it up. Once
we put aside our disbelief, accepting the move made
begrudgingly good sense. We made up the beds for our
first night in the new house and decided not to unpack
too many boxes.
Our house hunt began immediately. We chose the Taylor
family as our buyer's broker for their familiarity with
Northwest D.C. and close-in Montgomery County. As we
drove the streets, Nancy pointed out houses they'd flipped
multiple times over the course of their firm's 25 years.
Keene Taylor, Jr.'s adept use of the internet was a
bonus; we envisioned our long-distance hunt as a multimedia
extravaganza. Certainly, we'd be in our new home by
Christmas.
The first house we nearly bought last fall, the one
that represented the beginning of our real estate re-education,
was a brick colonial on Appleton Street in north Cleveland
Park. There were four finished levels, mostly updated
and freshly painted, including a modernized kitchen,
a basement guest suite, and a good-sized fenced yard
for the kids and dog. The open house was heavily trafficked;
our Realtors advised that we offer at least 5 percent
to 10 percent over the asking price, and waive the home-inspection
contingency.
At the time, it seemed absurd. "I've only spent
15 minutes here," I sputtered. "I don't know
a thing about the neighborhood or the schools."
Waive the home inspection clause? We hadn't a clue about
the condition of the electrical and heating systems,
let alone what was going on with the rodent traps in
the yard. We agonized, then eked out a bid 5 percent
over the asking price. The house sailed by us to the
buyers who offered 10 percent.
Silly, frugal Yankees. In retrospect, that house was
the best bargain we've seen. If we knew then what we
know now, we would have thrown all our firepower at
it — cashed in the Microsoft stock and the SEP
IRA, hocked my antique writing desk, the dog. The Taylors
have asked no fewer than 57 times if we have any regrets.
No, we always say. But we're lying.
The next near-win was in Bethesda on Wilson Lane, followed
by another on Greentree Road. Both were tear-down/rebuilds,
and the plans were breathtaking. The master suites of
each were like three bedrooms apiece, with walk-in closets
that, in all good conscience, should have been extra
bedrooms. But therein lies the problem we found with
so many rebuilds. We didn't need triply oversized master
suites, and I couldn't have filled the closet if I'd
won the DSW shoe lottery. But we could have used a few
extra nooks and crannies elsewhere. And we could have
also used a house that felt more in sync with the setting.
We saw some new constructions that rose like residential
skyscrapers in low-key neighborhoods. I didn't want
to be That McMansion Lady across the street.
Thanksgiving came and went, then Christmas, then Valentine's
Day. Houses came on the market in dribs and drabs, and
we bid on a few more. Every house that was in great
condition went predictably, reliably, for 10 percent
to 20 percent over the asking price. Life marched on.
Our daughter learned to walk; our son turned three.
Friends stopped planning our going-away party. We unpacked
more of our boxes. Tom began keeping clothes at a condominium
in Rockville where he stayed half the week. "Daddy,
you need to live with us," our son Connor complained
one Monday morning as his dad headed for the airport.
One day, Nancy Taylor told us about a listing she was
going to get shortly, an expanded colonial in Northwest
D.C., near Lafayette Elementary School. It wasn't coming
on the market until the owners negotiated a deal on
another house — which might take weeks, perhaps
months — but she thought she could get me in for
a preview.
From the moment we walked in the door, I knew I was
meant to live there. The spiffily renovated home oozed
classic good taste, every wall and ceiling meeting in
a ta-da bit of decorative molding, yet very livable
for a young family. The family room opened onto the
patio and back yard through French doors, and a wood-burning
fireplace crackled in the Provençal-style eat-in
kitchen. The attic had the fourth bedroom we needed,
plus an office and a full bath. The basement had a guest
room, and the pièce de résistance —
a rec room with a kids' craft cottage built right into
the walls, like a playhouse within a playhouse. I envisioned
a "Kumbaya" scene of sibling harmony and creativity,
all a few steps from the laundry.
We suspected the asking price would be too high, and
while we waited for it to come on the market, continued
to look. There were dozens of houses we came close to
bidding on, like the new construction built so close
to an elementary school that getting dressed in the
master bedroom could get you arrested for exposure.
Then there was the Tudor in Spring Valley, whose soil
test for arsenic came back less rosy than the listing
broker had suggested. Sometimes, a day of open houses
would seem to take on a theme: Very Floral Wallpaper
Day. No Backyard Day. Bidet Day.
We also continued to bid. Tom got charged up about a
house in Chevy Chase near Western Avenue, and although
I found the exterior uninspiring, I got onboard. Enough
already, I thought. Let's be done with this.
Tom was there to present the offer, and I waited back
in Boston for the phone to ring with the verdict. To
entertain myself, I uploaded digital pictures of the
house on the computer, and using Photoshop, repainted
the ho-hum exterior in swirls of fuchsia tie-dye.
As it turned out, we were one of the top bidders. The
sellers came back and asked which of the final few contenders
would be willing to rent it back to them for 90 days
after closing. Ninety days? We had a long-distance laugh
— ha ha ha! — that would mean not moving until
late June! I also suspected that those 90 days would
be brutal, spent watching houses I liked better come
on the market and go to someone else.
Still, we stepped up to the plate and offered to rent
it back for 60 days. But another couple proved the picture
of generosity, winning Tie-Dye by not only agreeing
to give the sellers 90 days, but to give it to them
rent-free.
How do you compete in a market like this? Thankfully,
Tom's company wasn't pressuring us too much to move.
Better to buy something we love, we told ourselves,
than settle for something we didn't and kick ourselves
later. Surely real-estate riches would rain down in
the spring.
However, some things couldn't wait, like securing preschool
this fall for our son. My high-school friend Kevin,
who lives in Bethesda with his wife and kids, issued
the alarm. "YOU HAVEN'T SENT IN APPLICATIONS YET?"
he e-mailed. I knew I was in trouble when low-key Kevin
typed in all-capital letters.
In true cart-before-the-horse fashion, I began filling
out applications for preschools in areas where there
was any possibility we might live. We toured classrooms
and met with directors, and were warned about the odds:
We were very late, most spaces were filled by alumni
siblings, and schools were already putting families
on wait-list status. We were even told that there was
a surplus of 3-year-old boys this year. Some friends
urged us to consider certain preschools that were seen
as "feeders" for private schools, should we
choose that route later. Later? We were barely managing
the now.
I was elated when Connor was accepted for the morning
program at the Chevy Chase Baptist Church Children's
Center — a preschool that struck me as vibrant
and diverse, and is convenient to the areas where we
were bidding most often. Connor would be going there
even if I had to drive 57 miles each way every morning.
In the spring, financial pressure began to mount. Interest
rates started to rise, inching upward every week from
March to May. A 4.5 percent adjustable rate mortgage
turned into 5.25 percent. Every few weeks we went without
locking in a rate would translate into hundreds more
on the monthly mortgage bill.
Meanwhile, home values were still soaring. Since we'd
begun looking, there was already a noticeable difference
for what you could get for the same price tag. And although
the spring inventory of homes was getting larger, it
didn't seem to be having any dampening effect on the
bidding wars.
Tom's division was doing better than expected, and we
decided to pry our wallets open wider. As if on cue,
the D.C. Playroom-within-a-Playroom house came on the
market. When Nancy told me the asking price, my heart
sank. Then I began doing the math. Tom and I spent four
days analyzing finances, and nipping and tucking our
budget. I even fantasized about furniture placement,
which by then I knew better than to do.
If this house were a horse race — and it was, with
seven bidders — our nag was put down after the
first furlong. It was a mercy killing from Keene Jr.
He called at 6 p.m. because he didn't want us to agonize
through the evening, deluding ourselves into thinking
we had a chance. Of the seven bids registered, three
were more than 10 percent over the asking price. The
party who won the house paid a little more than 20 percent
over. If this weren't depressing enough, we later learned
that they'd had an escalator clause, going up to 30
percent over asking price. (An escalator clause is a
financial sleight of hand in which the bidder offers
to best the competition by a fixed amount, such as $5,000,
up to a certain maximum price.)
I wore black for a few days. But when it came time to
fly down again, I willed back my optimism.
Now a few thoughts about optimism: It is either a really
noble or truly stupid quality to be able to stay in
a state of suspended hope when hope is shot down week
after week. It's said that the thing that separates
humans from animals is the ability to learn from our
mistakes, but I never did. On Thursdays and Fridays,
I would pull up the online listings the minute the kids
went down for a nap, and my imagination would bloom
with modern kitchens, renovated attics and bright playrooms.
Maybe even a little writing studio where I could procrastinate
in peace. Every week, I set out believing that the house
meant for us was right around the corner. This is
it. This is the day.
And so the Sunday after we lost Playroom, I headed out
to catch flight #2029 at 10 a.m. I turned my rental
car toward Nancy and Keene Jr.'s office on Connecticut
Avenue, and stopped at the Starbucks. I felt hopeful,
wired. I engaged the 20-something guy behind the counter
who was making my grande half decaf. "We're being
relocated here, and I'm out house hunting," I chattered.
"What do you think of this area?"
He sighed in a world-weary way. "Well, it does
have the fastest-growing home costs in the country.
But I like to go against the grain, so personally,
I find it way too affluent and homogeneous." He
paused, sizing me up. "But from the looks of you,
you'll fit in just fine." I tucked the change into
my homogeneous but not affluent Kate Spade wallet (it's
a knockoff), and slinked out to meet Keene Jr. at 32nd
Street.
He was waiting in front of a white-painted brick colonial
that was very promising — small, but in great condition,
with a reasonable price tag. The catch was that it had
only three bedrooms upstairs, and we needed four. Could
the attic be finished off into a master bedroom? Nancy
called in a favor with a builder who examined the house
the next day. His assessment wasn't what we'd hoped:
It would be more involved, expensive and intrusive than
we'd expected. We decided not to bid, and learned later
that week that the house didn't get any bids immediately.
I tucked it into the corner of my mind as a back-up
plan, and asked Nancy to keep tabs on whether any other
offers were placed. The following week, it was gone.
I was crushed, but Tom couldn't understand why. "It
didn't work for us. We can't do a three-bedroom, and
we don't want to renovate," he said. "Be careful,
Nic. You're sending mixed messages to our Realtors."
He was more or less right. Still, I smoldered, and felt
that he hadn't taken the house seriously enough. Sometimes
it was hard to remember we were on the same team.
The following Sunday was the week before Mother's Day,
and Nancy felt the new inventory was great. She had
an open house of her own, so I hit the ground running
with my list of 12 to see. By day's end, the house that
most warmed the cockles was in Westmoreland Hills: another
white-painted brick colonial but with four bedrooms
upstairs, plus a finished attic that could be made a
bit more polished, and a walk-out basement with a fireplace
that, in time, could be refinished into something truly
fantastic. The flow was great; the investment potential
was great. I walked down the street, and met a woman
who had children the same ages as ours. I had a good
feeling. This was it. This was the day.
We bid the moon, or what felt like the moon. We wrote
a cover letter introducing ourselves and our situation,
and included a cheerful, zany picture of our family.
It was as if we were applying to adopt a house. But
as it turned out, another couple came along with a slightly
higher bid. Oh, and an earnest deposit check for $250,000.
The truth began to seep in like rain on a bad roof:
It wasn't the houses that were out of our league; it
was our competitors. I began to wonder if we should
just rent instead of buy — equity be damned.
But Tom rebounded more quickly. The next day, he went
to see a new Bethesda listing just east of Westmoreland
Hills, and called me from the back yard.
"It's a total home run," he said. Tom never
says things like that. My blood pressure quickened.
"I'll take some pictures and send them tonight.
I think we should try a pre-emptive bid."
In New England, offering a pre-emptive bid is a common
strategy to entice a seller to commit to you before
the open house, capitalizing on the whole bird-in-the-hand
thing. In the Washington metro area, we have found that
sellers were rarely happy with one bird. Unless the
offer was knock-your-socks-off great, they'd rather
take their chances on the open market.
That night Tom sent me 60 photos, all showing a house
in move-in condition: four bedrooms upstairs, including
a renovated master suite; a generously sized kitchen
opening onto a family room; a great yard. Even though
I hadn't seen it myself, we decided to make a sock-knocking
pre-emptive bid. We offered $150,000 over the asking
price, which we vowed never to tell our parents (if
they read this, I'm prepared to swear it's a typo).
We wrote our offer cleaner than clean, with no contingencies
regarding the selling of our own house or a home inspection
(which is unheard of in New England, but again, common
here). We also offered them carte blanche on
the closing date.
We waited all day. That night I settled in front of
the season finale of "ER," and with eight
minutes to go, Keene Jr. called. "They say if you
increase your offer by $50,000, you have a deal,"
he said. Tom and I both had the same reaction: A generous
bid is a generous bid. Asking for more seemed…unseemly.
We said we would think about it. I watched the last
four minutes of "ER." And afterward, we were
both in agreement: It might, indeed, take $200,000 over
asking price to win this house in a bidding war after
the open house. Or it might not. But there was no way
we were going there without the safety net of an escalator
clause. We decided to try our luck on race day.
That Sunday I flew down to see it, along with a handful
of others, and was struck by how well the layout would
work for us. (I was also struck, leaving the airport,
by three flying cicadas.) We put in an offer the next
day with an escalator going to 18 percent over the asking
price, slightly higher than our initial bid. Tom flew
back down to Rockville, and since our own house in Boston
was being shown, I brought the kids to a friend's house
for dinner and waited for the news.
Tom called on my cell phone while we were eating. "They
have three couples whose bids are all within $20,000
of each other," he shouted over the din of five
toddlers. "They want to give everyone one last
chance to make their best offer. What should we do?"
Meaning, they wanted a chance to squeeze another few
thousand dollars out of all bidders. We resented it.
But did we resent it enough to deny ourselves a house
that would work well? To miss out on the chance to be
done with this process once and for all? I certainly
didn't feel cheery about selling our own house without
having something to be excited about on the other end.
We gritted our teeth and upped our bid by another $15,000.
When Tom called a few hours later and told me we hadn't
gotten it, we both felt relieved. Someone had overpaid
for that house, and it hadn't been us. Maybe it was
sour grapes; maybe we would have been ecstatic if we'd
gotten it. Yet not getting this house meant there was
still possibility shimmering on the horizon. Or maybe
we'd decide it was time, God help me, to take on a fixer-upper
after all. I went to bed and dreamed about a dingy,
labyrinthine house whose staircase doubled as a bathroom-sink
and commode where the railing should be, tiled in industrial
blue.
This morning, I am scouring the new listings and hopping
on flight #2029. Nancy says that we shouldn't give up
yet on the neighborhoods we love; we've had tough luck,
but we've come so close.
She also says this weekend's new inventory looks great.
I take my place in seat 22C, flip through the listings
I've printed out online and begin to feel that spreading
optimism. My mind fills with images of modern kitchens,
renovated attics and bright playrooms. I have a good
feeling. This is the day.
Editor's Note: In late June, after 11 months of
house hunting, Nichole and Tom placed a winning bid
on a home in Chevy Chase. They moved into their new
home in late August.
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