When I pulled up in front of her house, it looked like the Mediterranean. The black iron gate with hibiscus and bougainvillea wrapping around the curly cue designs. Then I stepped into the secret garden. Except it wasn’t a secret since you had to walk through it to get to the front door. Terracotta tiles and white stucco walls laid the backdrop for roses in every color I imagined.
The colors of seashells.
A deep velvet red fit for a royal robe.
A violet so striking and delicate, I vowed not to touch it.
Bright, rosy pinks like neon.
Corals, yellows, oranges kissed by the sun, purples so deep like the midnight sky, white petals like starlight.
It was the most beautiful home I had ever seen and I wanted to live there. A yearning rising from somewhere so deep and true in my soul.
But I wasn't sure I could afford it.
The heavy Spanish door opened and Marianne stepped out and smiled, a warm smile, like she was actually glad I was there. Not like it was a chore to meet another potential renter.
The studio was tiny, but beautiful. Furnished with decor that looked like it was from Ikea, but more colorful.
But I don't think any of it was from Ikea, because Marianne was from Sweden and she was in her 70s.
The bathroom was huge and luxurious.
It was just as big as the studio, with a huge Roman tub and sea foam green hexagonal tiles on the floor. Lace curtains blew in the breeze of the window that was slightly open. I saw a lemon tree outside.
It did not have a kitchen. Hallelujah! I had an excuse not to cook. A small fridge sat on the floor underneath a clean, gray Formica counter top. On top, was a microwave, a small sink, and a paper towel holder.
I felt like it was my miniature palace.
"Do you like it?", she asked.
"It's perfect.", I said.
"Then it's yours." she says, as if she was ready to welcome me into her own home. Which it was actually, because she lived in the main part of the house.
It was a big house, with a few other studio apartments she rented.
But this one was the best. It was special.
I racked my brain trying to remember how much the Craig's List ad said she was asking. Because even though negotiating and calculating were not my forte, I thought if I told her I remembered the price being lower than it really was then there was a chance. A small chance that this dream may come true.
But before I spoke, she said, "It's $1100 a month, power, water, and cable included. Does that sound good?"
I'm sure if I had been older, I would've seen the incredible deal she was offering me, living in Marin County.
But I still couldn't afford it.
I thanked her for meeting with me and letting me look around. "Unfortunately it's a bit too high for me right now. Thank you for showing me your beautiful space."
I didn't want to manipulate, to calculate, to strategize.
I just wanted her to know that I loved it, that she had a rare gem of a home, and that maybe someday I would be back.
As I turned to walk back to my car, she asked, "What can you afford?"
Still being honest, I blurted out, "$900".
"You've got a deal."
A few days later, I lay on that bed with the soft, fluffy comforter with big square baffles, stuffed with feathers and down, and I look out the big, arched bay window that looked directly out onto the rose garden.
My window was the only one that had a view of the roses.
I breathed for the first time in a long time.