So, chicks, where we last left off, Mr Findingmoxie and I were embarking on our flat-hunt in the city of San Francisco. Now, this wasn't our first rodeo and we had picked up a few tricks from our London hunting days. First, you must always go in with a chequebook and if you like it, slap a ring on it immediately. Hunters who decide to mull it over a pint of stout or a good night's sleep will never ever get the flat of their dreams. Fortune favours the brash, so move quickly and without showing any hesitation. Second, be prepared to be shown many squalid and truly horrifying tenements. Don't become dispirited by this nightmare sequence. You need to see the bad to recognize the good. Think on Jane Austen. There must be a Wickham before there can be a Darcy. However, that is not to say that we were expecting the SF flat hunt to be a cake-walk. Not at all. Mr Findingmoxie had read a handful of alarming articles, ruminating on the state of the rental market in the city and it was reputed to be FIERCE. In any case, a reconnaissance was in order, so we piled into a car and went out to find our new stomping ground. 
When I last lived in San Francisco, I found the city beautiful and believed the source of its beauty was purely geographical--a city of hills on a bay, the East Bay sprawling out on one side of the bay and the ocean stretching out on the other. Bookended by two soaring bridges and around every corner, a new breathtaking view of water, sun and dizzyingly steep streets, how could San Francisco not be a stunner?
Well, the prodigal has returned and now all I can see are the buildings, glorious painted ladies in all colors, shapes and sizes. Houses in the Sunset district are compact and bright, perched near Ocean Beach like an tier of whimsically iced cupcakes. The homes in the Castro have stairs that lead up from the street, towering ever higher, like tropical birds perched in tree branches. In the Haight, homes verge on the psychedelic, more color on one house from trim to base than you'd ever expect to see in a whole street of homes. In Cole Valley, the apartment buildings change from style, shape and era, nevermind the colors. Sounds mad, doesn't it? In San Francisco, it just WORKS. And frankly, it can make you feel giddy and charmed that honest to goodness grown-ups live in a real-life Candyland. 
Having sussed neighborhoods, we were ready to jump in the melee. I would consider the findingmoxies fairly respectable, in fact, verging alarmingly on yuppie--saved only by the weird and wonderful awesomeness of our friends. Both of us clean up real good, know our way around a smile and a witticism, and on the whole, are productive members of society. Most days. But as we went from flat to flat, meeting agent after agent, and explained our circumstances--no jobs lined up, just immigrated from London, flush with hard-earned savings, Mr Findingmoxie without a credit history in this country, living in LA, but stating our references as housing agents in London, and so on--we started to FEEL shifty. Seriously, we sounded like fast-talking charlatans, selling beachfront property in Arizona. I won't lie. It became demoralizing. Even I wouldn't have given us a lease.
It was looking hopeless, chicks. But we kept on and one day, we saw this flat in Cole Valley that was privately owned by a family. Halfway through showing us the flat, the landlady turned to us and confessed that she liked us. And she wanted the flat rented out that day. Mr Findingmoxie and I looked at each other. Suddenly, we were like that brainy girl in high school who slouches, wears glasses and her hair in a ponytail, never believing in herself until that popular boy becomes her lab partner, spends afternoons studying with her, realizes she's AMAZING and tells her so. I'll tell you, WHAT A RUSH. We practically fell over ourselves to apply for the apartment and assure the landlady that yes, we were as amazing as she thought we were. Next thing we know, we're signing a lease in her apartment while admiring the tigers painted onto her Tibetan rugs.
Two weeks later, we moved in. Without any furniture or electronics. In fact, we are still waiting for our furniture. But, I trust Jane Austen and know that until you spend 3 weeks sitting on folding chairs, you cannot truly appreciate a sofa.
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| Our yellow apartment building.... |
