To trample on Tolstoy’s immortal prose: every successful real estate transaction is successful in the same way; every unsuccessful transaction is unsuccessful in its own special, one-of-a-kind, that’s-what-went-wrong way. More or less. Here’s one example of selling a home that defies description.

A woman we knew was living in a semi-rural area in New York State, right north of the New Jersey border. (This was about 20 years ago.) She felt a strong need to reconnect to the Jewish community – as in Teaneck – and needed to sell her house (large, needing some work, on a substantial parcel of land with a stream flowing through it.) It had been on the market for $500,000 for a while with no interest. What was her next move?  Try to guess.

1. Take it off the market and reconsider her options.
2. Keep trying to sell it as is and see what happens.
3. Try to rent it out.
4. Lower the asking price.
5. Raise the asking price.

Time’s up; everyone hand in your answers. Numbers 1-3 each got a few votes; number 4 got lots of votes; number 5 got zero votes. (No surprise there.) But that’s what she did. She started working with a new broker, who immediately raised the asking price to (get ready!) $1,000,000, whereupon the property sold fairly quickly.

THAT MAKES NO SENSE!!!!  That’s what you’re thinking; that’s what I thought. But as it was explained to me: There is that sub-set of a sub-set of the market that is looking for luxury accommodations. Something on the market for half the price they’re willing to spend doesn’t interest them – like you want a steak and you’re being offered a hot dog. The thought that something might be a bargain – worth twice the selling price and just what they want – would never enter their minds. (They may be rich, but that doesn’t make them smart.)

Our first house in N.J. was a lot easier to sell. The guy we were working with kept track of every real estate transaction in the area, so he knew exactly how much our little house was worth. Within a few days we got two offers and sold it for the market price. Easy-peasy.

But real estate in NJ was always easier to deal with. You’re looking for a three-bedroom colonial (two stories); living room, dining room, kitchen on the first floor, three bedrooms on the second floor, one and a half bathrooms, garage, attic, usually a garage. That’s what we got, thousands of them, always some for sale. Of course, they are not identical; some are nicer, some are in better shape, some cost more, some less, some are in neighborhood you’d want to be in, or you wouldn’t, but you get an idea.

Here in Ma’ale Adumim? In our part of town – the older part – each block of buildings was put up by a different developer with a different plan. OK, each apartment has a toilet, a kitchen, and some other rooms, but any similarity in the size or layout is purely coincidental. In the early 1980’s, the idea was get ‘em up as fast as you can. Architectural subtlety was not the name of the game. Two sinks, one for meat, one for dairy? Hey, you got running water.

I did not envy Esther, our real estate person, taking us around, trying to find something that would be appealing and appropriate – as in, not too big, not too small, not too far away, not too many steps. That’s too far from where we want to be. Is that a kitchen or a shoe box? The three bedrooms in this place would fit into our living room. No, just no. lots of no, just no’s.

To make matters worse, here in The Land, every man is his own expert – no matter what’s involved. Our favorite maybe you shouldn’t have done it yourself story was about one apartment we saw. What was wrong? This self-made architect had shrunk the three bedrooms to make a larger play area for his children – as if that would be a selling point.  (Maybe we could turn the hallway into a game room for when our friend Richard shows up.) Then he removed the washer and dryer from the main bathroom and put them outside on the patio – so you can run out in the rain in you p.j.’s to retrieve your laundry. But his pride and joy was the Pesach cabinet he put in himself. Where’s the door to it?, Barbara asked Esther. There is no door; it’s behind the refrigerator. Barbara was confused. You mean you have to slide out the refrigerator every time you need to get to it? No words. Except perhaps for no, just no.

The fact that there was nothing out there that was in any way, shape, or form acceptable to either of us might have thrown a damper on the whole shebang, but my soulmate is made of sterner stuff, not the kind to quit when the going gets tough. What to do? Keep on looking, because you never know. Except that you will know, or at least I’ll let you know as events unfold.