I’ll be home in a little while, and I’m bringing a real estate agent with me. If you want to ruin my day big time, just bring anyone involved in real estate transactions into my field of vision, which is what Barbara was threatening to do.

I remember years ago when the dreaded ‘M’ word was first broached by a friend at a Shabbat morning kiddush in our living room (where else?). Even several shots of the good stuff wasn’t enough to calm my friend’s nerves. It wasn’t that his wife was being impractical or unreasonable, au contraire, mes amis. Her plan made perfect sense: they were living in a rental apartment here in town, with an absentee landlady who had no interest in keeping the apartment in good repair. Our friend is very handy and could easily have taken care of things. But why bother? It wasn’t his apartment to fix. The missus had figured out that, if they ‘M’oved down south, they could finally afford to buy something of their own. And so our friend, kicking and screaming, was packed off several hours away from his comfort zone. We’ve seen their new apartment. It’s actually quite nice, spacious, high up, in a well-maintained building, each apartment having its own safe room – something quite desirable in an area where ‘the rockets red glare’ is not just a line in a national anthem. But they’ve never been able to recreate the circle of friends they had in the Anglo bubble in Ma’ale Adumim. They have to come back every so often because there are few if any English-speaking medical people where they are. So was it worth it? Maybe yes; maybe no. Not my call. (Not yours either.)

But you’re asking, who was putting this bee in Barbara’s bonnet? (Not I, said the fly.) My soulmate has always had this strange fixation. We’re walking down the street; it could be anywhere in the world – Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Hoboken, Bangkok – and if there on the corner is a real estate office with the typical adverts in the window for houses or apartment that are available, she will stop to peruse them. Just to see. I can’t fault her. If it were an Apple store, I’d be doing the same eyeballing – although on a smaller scale. As has been remarked, different strokes…

On this fateful day, Barbara was returning from her Wed. Ladies Who Lunch at the mall and, on the way, stopped in front of a real estate office in Kikar Yahalom (the older, small outdoor mall). She was looking at the ads in their window, when out popped a head. Can I help you? One could always reply, just looking, thank you, and continue on one’s merry way. But Barbara wasn’t just looking. The dreaded ‘M’ word was already on the table.

What Barbara had in mind wasn’t so extreme. She wasn’t thinking of moving to another continent, another country, another community, not even another congregation (heaven forbid). Maybe a different corner. A different apartment that didn’t have twenty-eight steps up from the street and another fifteen steps from the kitchen up to our bedroom. Despite being as limber as women half her age, the wife has arthritis and serious issues with her back. Why wait, she reasoned, until I can’t get up and down the stairs and we’re forced to move precipitously into something neither of us likes? The logic was impeccable, but that didn’t mean I had to like it.

Soon enough, the front door opened, and Barbara entered along with Esther (listed in her phone as Estherrealestate, to distinguish her from Estherhairdresser, Esthercomputer, EstherA, Estherdaughterofx, the list goes on).  Our visitor had been made aware that I was, shall we say, not on board, with the notion of moving our abode. This was my opportunity to speak up loud and clear.

We’ve been in this apartment for fifteen years, the longest by far we’ve ever been in one apartment in any community. As you can see, we’ve invested mightily into turning this place into our HOME. The location is great, we’re surrounded by friends, we have good relations with our neighbors, a million-dollar view from any window, why would I ever want to move? Yes, we’ve been spoiled living here in this spacious, airy apartment, but what’s wrong with that? Wherever we’ve been, we never had the money to do basic repairs, let alone make it nice. Let me live out my days being spoiled. I’m entitled. We’re entitled. All good points, but did I really believe I had any chance of winning this one? Barbara had heard all of this before, and Esther just sat there listening. (I had always maintained that either someone was carrying me out of this apartment on a stretcher, or the government was throwing me out, otherwise I wasn’t going anywhere. The third option, the one at hand, never occurred to me.)

In reality (where’s that?) I had two choices. I could dig in my heels, throw a tantrum, and maintain I’M NOT MOVING, but the disadvantages of that decision are, I’m sure, obvious to one and all. (The only thing worse than involuntarily changing one’s living quarters is changing one’s life partner.) Or, I could say, if YOU want to move, then show ME a place worth moving to. Who could argue with that? Barbara’s whole point was that, by acting now, we would have the luxury of being choosy. And Esther was smart enough to understand the dynamics of the situation. That’s because she’s British, not Israeli.

The way real estate usually works here in The Land, an agent has something to sell and that’s the main focus. Find a buyer – any buyer – and move on. Sort of like most of the fruit and vegetable guys at the shuk. You’re moving produce not creating a customer base.

Where we come from, the real estate agent creates a relationship with a client. This is what the Casdens are looking for at this price point; let me find something appropriate for them. And whenever that is, I’ll let them know. In the meantime, let’s figure out how much their house might sell for and what they would need to do to maximize its value.

Esther was the only agent willing to take us around just to see what was out there – even before we had committed to selling our beloved apartment. And why not? She could either sit around — like the other agents – staring at her phone, waiting for some business to turn up, or she could take the time to drive us around to a few apartments, at least to gauge our reaction and get a better sense of what we were looking for. But at least as important, when our place goes on the market, the commission goes to her. The early bird gets the worm, or words to that effect.

(The first of a series of articles. For better or worse, more will follow.)