Saeeda and I have been diligently hunting for houses in the Chicago suburbs, while I've been in Sales training, . Although my Sales rotation will keep me downtown, it is only a matter of time before I am transferred back to HQ, which will then require a horrendous 2 hour commute (one way) from downtown Chicago. So we've been mostly concentrating on looking at places in the northern suburb of Evanston, from where both of our commutes are going to be manageable.
We taken our time, probably more so because of the great buyer's market that we're in right now. Home sellers are receptive to cutting prices, houses are staying on the market for months, and buyer are generally not competing for the same property. I say generally, because this past weekend it became clear to us how quickly things can change.
On Sunday Saeeda and I returned to a new housing development that we had first visited in July, just when we were starting our housing hunt. Located conveniently close to public transportation, this development on Church St. pushes up against the lower-income part of Evanston, and so our concern for this entire time has been whether this is going to be a good investment. This Sunday we wanted to revisit to see how much more construction had taken place, and what units were still available for sale.
The sales office was a zoo. There were prospective buyers everywhere, and the agent working that day was clearly overwhelmed. Luckily, we were one of the first people there, so we were able to corner the agent and ask most of our questions before he got pulled away by another lady. It quickly became clear to us that interest in this development had picked up significantly in the time that we had been exploring our options elsewhere in Chicago, so we decided to put down a reservation on one of the units. The reservation was a refundable amount of money that would simply enable us to spend 10 days to decide whether we wanted to put in a contract. So we pulled the selling agent away as soon as we got the option and told him of our decision. The agent gladly got us the forms, which we filled out and returned to him. At which point he turned a little pale.
Apparently the other lady that he had been attending to had decided to put down a reservation for the same unit. It was amazing how quickly our entire mindset changed. Faced with the prospect of losing a desirable property, we completely abandoned the laissez-faire attitude we'd had for the last three months. Panic set in. The agonizingly long debates that we'd had each night debating the pros and cons of the 30 or so properties we'd seen so far instantly became irrelevant. The list of top properties we had been considering for the last few weeks quickly whittled down to one - Church Street. We had to have this place.
Which is when our real estate agent stepped up her game and earned her keep many times over. Nancy had come recommended to us by a friend of mine, and had been the perfect complement to our easygoing attitude during our entire real estate hunt. Not pushy, always supportive, and a pleasure to be around, Nancy was more a nice older relative than real estate agent. But the moment she realized that there was going to be a rumble, and that some tough negotiating was called for, she transformed before our eyes.
With quiet, commanding authority, Nancy calmly told us to leave the sales center, as things could get ugly. She told us to immediately head home to retrieve our checkbooks - the reservation amount was completely refundable and it would give us an edge against the lady now looking to reserve the same property that we wanted. As I left the sales office, I could clearly hear the other lady begin to complain loudly upon learning that someone else wanted the house that she did.
The drive home to pick up our checkbook was an enlightening one. I realized that this whole time Saeeda and I had been suffering from option paralysis. Just the fact that we could take our time and look at all the houses that we wanted meant that we were stuck trying to figure out exactly what we wanted. Facing a high-pressure situation had quickly whittled down our options and forced us to make a decision, one that we had been agonizing over for months.
It took us 40 min. to return to the sales center, where we were met by Nancy - there was no sign of our competition and the house was ours to reserve. I would find out later that Nancy had negotiated quickly and efficiently to find flaws in the other lady's candidacy, and to instead promote our own. Faced with the option of picking, the builder's agent had decided to go with us. The relief was immense, as was the gratitude I felt for Nancy's ability to negotiate hard. I know I've learned this stuff in class, but theory is one thing and the practical reality of a situation is another completely.
Now begin the 10 days of making sure this is the perfect place for us. I wonder if we're going to wait until day 9 to make that final call...
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query church street. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query church street. Sort by date Show all posts
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Monday, March 5, 2007
Beauty and tragedy in Macau
I'm going to go all Quentin Tarantino on you, and start at the ending first:
I ran around in a panic, looking for someone to help me. Obviously I was tired - the whole day had been one long walk with only sporadic breaks. Perhaps that is what caused the mental lapse. Or maybe it was just my poor memory (about which my wife will gladly provide you many, many, anecdotes.) All I know was that I had lost my camera, and I was distraught. Tragedy had struck.
Ok, there, I've done it and got that out of the way. I apologize in advance for the plain nature of my blog entries going forward. You'll have to use your imagination from here on out, because that beautiful, expensive, digital camera I purchased expressly for the purposes of this trip is now no more. I sometimes dream that it's been found and I have it in my possession again. But alas, I'm still waiting for that Good Samaritan to turn it in. Fat chance.
In any case, today I decided to head to Macau, that other anomaly of international politics (the first being Hong Kong.) As the British were to Hong Kong, so were the Portuguese to Macau. Upon departing, which they did not do until 1999, they left behind a crazy mix of cultures that manifested itself in the art, the architecture, and the ambiance of the island.
The ferry ride from Hong Kong to Macau took an hour, and was painless. It was immigration that was the headache. Not that anything surprises me at this point, but I can't say the same for the poor officers that are unlucky enough to have me pull up to the immigration window. It's like they see a Pakistani passport and they silently reach for the panic button hidden under their desks. Alarm bells will ring in a distant room, and reinforcements will arrive, speaking in native tongues that are incomprehensible to me, but which are no doubt saying things like, "Bravo 1 to Base, Bravo 1 to Base, we have a Code Red in progress. Over. Request immediate backup. Over."
20 minutes later (after having upset everyone in line behind me), I was asked to pay for a visa and let in to China ... again ... after just having left ... China. Such is the quirk of the Specially Administered Regions (SARs) that are Hong Kong and Macau. They belong to China in name only (for now).
Macau was cool. The ruins of St. Paul's Church are the number one tourist destination, even though they consist only of a facade of a once glorious building. But what a facade! Easily five stories high, the entry to the seventeenth century church sits atop a hill, and in its architectural detail manages to document Christianity itself. Tiny statues tell stories, and there are depictions of significant events in Macanese Catholocism.
A few steps away, not far from the old Monte Fort, is a magnificent European square with the old Senate building looking over everything. You'd be forgiven for thinking you were in Europe. Street signs are in Portuguese, churches and cathedrals are everywhere, and even the cobblestoned alleyways wind and turn in a way that they can only do in the Old Country.
Walking around was fun, as was snapping pictures of Chinese life in a Portuguese setting (which, alas, no will ever see.) I even had the opportunity to visit Chinese temples, which reminded that I was, after all, in Asia. And the food was delicious. There's a way chicken is prepared here that is simply amazing - a blend of spices that are at once Chinese and European at the same time. Best fried chicken I've ever had.
As the day turned to night, I walked back over to the ferry terminal, bought my ferry ticket, and rushed to the gate as I was running late. It was then that my eye caught a sign by a travel service desk for a hotel - "Greek Hotel Check-in," it said. "Greek Mythology Service Available." It took me a while to figure out that what they probably meant was that Greek interpretation services were available, but I stopped to capture a picture anyway. After all, where else would I be offered a chance to communicate with Greek Gods? Alas, that picture would be the last one I'd take.
Somewhere between taking that picture, and walking through immigration, the ferry check-in gate, the waiting lounge, and the ferry itself, I put my camera down and never picked it back up again. There were always lots of people around me, so it infuriates me that no one even said a thing or tried to tell me I was leaving something behind. I know they must have seen it.
Sorry. Just me trying to find excuses for a brain fart. At least Macau was fun.
I ran around in a panic, looking for someone to help me. Obviously I was tired - the whole day had been one long walk with only sporadic breaks. Perhaps that is what caused the mental lapse. Or maybe it was just my poor memory (about which my wife will gladly provide you many, many, anecdotes.) All I know was that I had lost my camera, and I was distraught. Tragedy had struck.
Ok, there, I've done it and got that out of the way. I apologize in advance for the plain nature of my blog entries going forward. You'll have to use your imagination from here on out, because that beautiful, expensive, digital camera I purchased expressly for the purposes of this trip is now no more. I sometimes dream that it's been found and I have it in my possession again. But alas, I'm still waiting for that Good Samaritan to turn it in. Fat chance.
In any case, today I decided to head to Macau, that other anomaly of international politics (the first being Hong Kong.) As the British were to Hong Kong, so were the Portuguese to Macau. Upon departing, which they did not do until 1999, they left behind a crazy mix of cultures that manifested itself in the art, the architecture, and the ambiance of the island.
The ferry ride from Hong Kong to Macau took an hour, and was painless. It was immigration that was the headache. Not that anything surprises me at this point, but I can't say the same for the poor officers that are unlucky enough to have me pull up to the immigration window. It's like they see a Pakistani passport and they silently reach for the panic button hidden under their desks. Alarm bells will ring in a distant room, and reinforcements will arrive, speaking in native tongues that are incomprehensible to me, but which are no doubt saying things like, "Bravo 1 to Base, Bravo 1 to Base, we have a Code Red in progress. Over. Request immediate backup. Over."
20 minutes later (after having upset everyone in line behind me), I was asked to pay for a visa and let in to China ... again ... after just having left ... China. Such is the quirk of the Specially Administered Regions (SARs) that are Hong Kong and Macau. They belong to China in name only (for now).
Macau was cool. The ruins of St. Paul's Church are the number one tourist destination, even though they consist only of a facade of a once glorious building. But what a facade! Easily five stories high, the entry to the seventeenth century church sits atop a hill, and in its architectural detail manages to document Christianity itself. Tiny statues tell stories, and there are depictions of significant events in Macanese Catholocism.
A few steps away, not far from the old Monte Fort, is a magnificent European square with the old Senate building looking over everything. You'd be forgiven for thinking you were in Europe. Street signs are in Portuguese, churches and cathedrals are everywhere, and even the cobblestoned alleyways wind and turn in a way that they can only do in the Old Country.
Walking around was fun, as was snapping pictures of Chinese life in a Portuguese setting (which, alas, no will ever see.) I even had the opportunity to visit Chinese temples, which reminded that I was, after all, in Asia. And the food was delicious. There's a way chicken is prepared here that is simply amazing - a blend of spices that are at once Chinese and European at the same time. Best fried chicken I've ever had.
As the day turned to night, I walked back over to the ferry terminal, bought my ferry ticket, and rushed to the gate as I was running late. It was then that my eye caught a sign by a travel service desk for a hotel - "Greek Hotel Check-in," it said. "Greek Mythology Service Available." It took me a while to figure out that what they probably meant was that Greek interpretation services were available, but I stopped to capture a picture anyway. After all, where else would I be offered a chance to communicate with Greek Gods? Alas, that picture would be the last one I'd take.
Somewhere between taking that picture, and walking through immigration, the ferry check-in gate, the waiting lounge, and the ferry itself, I put my camera down and never picked it back up again. There were always lots of people around me, so it infuriates me that no one even said a thing or tried to tell me I was leaving something behind. I know they must have seen it.
Sorry. Just me trying to find excuses for a brain fart. At least Macau was fun.
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