Threat of a video
Let’s change the protagonist. The real-estate agent.
First, a few comments…
Most Italian real-estate agents, and this comes from vast personal experience in purchasing several properties in & around this Land of Michelangelo et al, are a particularly annoying species of Human Beings. Low marks. Mostly, because they do not listen to you. Worse. They just ignore you and what you want in hiring them, and instead, move on by throwing properties which, DO NOT CORRESPOND, in any way, shape or, form to your desires/wants/wishes. A waste of time. There are other irritating characteristics. I won’t list them here now. They do tend to grate upon any sense of respect for these persons usually attired in: A) grubby clothes and muddy hiking boots… one wore his Birkenstocks!!!… or , B) the latest difficult fashions for someone much wider than is tall. Forget friendship. You and I, directed by Destiny, did come upon one who had sold us Il Poggiolo back in ‘09. One we thought to be relatively up front, legit, got us our place… Il Poggiolo… at the price we wanted to pay. In other words, he did his job.
Our story, with him, briefly…
the agent contacted me… I had left my calling card with one of his office seat-warmers a couple of years before an email arrived in my In-Box the day after New Year’s 2009. My aged mother had just left for home in NC after treating us to a stellar Christmas visit to Florence. Five nights at the Lungarno Hotel. Our room, overlooking the Arno and its cute, fury medium-sized creatures swimming to & fro in the current-less river, was totally upholstered!!! Comfy Midnight Blue wall-to-wall, striped Midnight Blue & White fabric walls, a Queen-size bed with about a meter of soft pillows & duvets covering a to-curl-up-and-go-to-sleep mattress, which You and I promptly tested out with our own brand of calisthenics… or, if not too much info, gymnastics. The hotel’s Staff were brilliant. Arranged everything for us, from private tours of the Uffizi Gallery to dinner reservations. The word No did not ever pass their lips. The hotel’s lounge area with panoramic windows again of the Arno and Florence opposite had huge over-stuffed sofas for sipping wine, dining on a lite-lunch or, taking a post-tour nap, was simply Heaven. I was pretty saturated by Comfort with a capital C, when I opened the email to discover an offer to visit what was billed as a hook for a second home in the Lunigiana. I replied and an appointment was set for the following Thursday. Saw three properties. One in Soliera. I hated it. Three floors of cantine…. might have made for an interesting disco… and another two totally without charm. Bad floor plan. Marvelous views of the Apuane Peaks though, if you could overlook the trash dump below. Noisy & smelly trucks included. Another, right in the middle of Codiponte was fantastic. Un-touched original Tuscan construction of big ol’ wood beams, white-washed stucco walls, stone floors and staircase, wood planks for the floors above, a couple of impressive fireplaces… their flues heating the sleeping rooms over-head… and even little ovens at two Kitchen windows to heat soup, maybe or, just to take the chill off. The place even had a high walled-in courtyard the size of an Italian postage stamp to let the cow get some air. Cow? Oh, yes, chickens and rabbits were kept too in the Ground Floor stalls. However, and despite the house’s charms, if you sneezed or, chose to fart, the entire village would know. Said, No. The last was Il Poggiolo. Forty-five minutes later it said Yes! Made another appointment with the agent for the Saturday following so You could take a look and offer his Judgement. The day was f*****g freezing. You took his time, bundled up for an Arctic Climate, as is his want and despite the near 0 temps, to check all before, below & behind. Then, as we gathered at Codiponte’s piazzetta’s car-park, the real-estate agent asked us what we thought. You piped up… Well, it’ll do. I think you should make an offer. Just what the real-estate agent wanted to hear. Suggested we go low with it and see. What he suggested was below my max to spend-to-buy… for a falling down wreck of a house, and yet with… distinct possibilities for renovation. My Mother’s favorite phrase right after… Will you take less? The agent promptly set to work. He immediately called one of the owners. While we shivered beside You’s AUDI as a Winter’s sun set behind yonder hills, the agent laid out the proposal to the person at the other end of the line… We were two gentlemen from Genoa interested in buying the property, however, we were considering others so, the offer is tot, and it expires on Monday. A classic… Take it or, loose it! The agent promised to personally visit the owners… two sisters… the next day, Sunday, to seal the deal and get back to us. Monday Noon, we were happily on our way to buying the 450+ sqm of Tuscan farm house. Four years to re-build. Sixteen years as a home.
Now, I want to sell. To close the circle, I invited the real-estate agent to Il Poggiolo. He had only seen the place shortly after our re-build was complete. I asked him what he thought about listing Il Poggiolo? Would anyone bite? He was enthusiastic. Money!
Next questions? What would he need from me and what was the Game Plan for listing? Photos? Oh, no. A video. People want videos these days. Really? Really. Not a simple request…
backing up a bit, the real-estate agent had in the interim years aligned himself in partnership with a American woman I had once worked for. In fact, I introduced her to the Lunigiana. Twice I tried. The second time it stuck. She bought a house… a fortress, in her eyes… re-built & furnished it all with my help & council. That was enough. We mutually terminated our association. She then took what she had learned and ran with it to YouTube and the real-estate agent as her next partner. I bet she sensed the time was right to sell to Americans, those adventurous enough to buy a 2nd, 3rd or, 4th home outside the typically knowable bastions for Americans in Italy. The catch word was, of course… Tuscany. I was told their arrangement was the American woman would do the media savvy video fluff-stuff, while the real-estate agent did the grunt work of contracts, deposits, closing meetings at a notary public’s office, etc. Shed of the usual chestnut dye-job from my stint, the video mavin and her video-crew imported from London… again, I was told… would periodically assault a property to video what all was found within & without accompanied by her commentary. What to her were probably clever, pithy, even funny insights bordered on the rude to the rest of the world. Friends and acquaintances here, who knew about her & me, would forward the sales videos, adding their shocked comments of… Is she crazy? Who does she think she is? What’s the story? Mio Dio! A couple I managed to endure… for maybe no more than about two minutes… neither expressed Good Salesmanship. She’s not interested in that? Didn’t seem to be. More Brand Identity, instead. Notoriety too. As Oscar Wilde once intimated, doesn’t matter if what you say or, do, is Good or Bad, it’s garnering the attention that counts… in so many words.
My stomach turned with anxious thoughts of shortly having to submit to her invasion to video Il Poggiolo. I sought council of my own. My dearest German friend offered to come and protect me. I said yes. Another dear friend, an American, helping her daughter to matriculate at a prestigious Catholic university up in Milan, also offered to come to shield me. Said yes to her too.
While ingesting TUMS, the real-estate agent called and asked me to write-up a brief Story of Il Poggiolo. Knocked it off on a rainy afternoon and sent it on to him, receiving a belated thumbs-up.
Thought later, it would be smart to ask for some time, say a couple of weeks, to prep the house & garden. 5,000 square feet of house to make spiffy. I dislike the concept of spiffy. Yet, I accepte it might be desired to sell. The 25,000 square feet of garden could be less spiffy. Leaves raked. All this was also a diversionary tactic to stem my gnawing and aggravating nervousness. Focused upon putting our best foot forward, especially, if Il Poggiolo was to be captured through a view-finder for all Posterity by folk from London accompanying their suspected critical Team Leader. So, I called the real-estate agent. No reply. Texted him. No reply. Went to work and then tried again a couple of days later. No reply. Texted and no reply either. Sent an email!!! And no reply for that either. About a week later, the agent finally called, excused himself for the delay, and asked what he could do. I explained. Time to tackle the house AND garden. He said… Of course! Whatever you need!… and to let him know when all was ready. Someone would show-up on the next sunny afternoon to video. Fine. Thanks. Ugh.
Busted butt. I had to work around the rainy days to tackle the garden: raking, cleaning, trimming, chucking, and burning. When not possible, I dove inside to do similar tasks, except I exchanged hiding for burning. Did call in Reserves. Our Sunny Cleaning Lady dedicated an afternoon to The Cause. Sent a call out to my German Friend. She replied, yes. And, Thank God. I was not psychologically prepared to tackle La Casa Grande’s Dining Room alone.
Lacking a proper photo of La Casa Grande’s Dining Room at its height packed full of stuff, here are two other photos in an attempt to present what I was faced with: Left) take what you see there at the bottom of the photo and multiply it by 100 and Right) what would 100 times look like if You’s stuff was trash. It isn’t. It does accumulate quite rapidly.
Let me tell you… and this is a tip… bring on a German in case of need or fun. Germans are brilliant, organizationally & logistically speaking, especially in The Need Department. They know how to do it. Mine asked politely if she could take charge. I said, yes. And, lo’ & behold, she did… it… undaunted by the mountain range of stuff piled on top of our large square Dining Room table or the other stuff in auxiliary piles in corners, under chairs, and around the room. Piles? What sort, exactly? Here’s a quick list:
dishes, service pieces, vases, my homeless artwork, knick-knacks of unknown provenance, dead-looking silk flowers, an American flag rolled up for safe keeping as if that’s going to help America right now… crystal bobs & ornaments, glasses & goblets, crystal pitchers, serving trays, table linens, bed linens, rags!!! and various non-sequiturs, quaintly referred to by You as objets d’art.
I left the room. I puttered in another precinct of La Casa Grande requiring attention for a bit and then went out into the garden with the Dogs to run those two delinquents and tidy up there. There were lots of there, up there. About twenty minutes later, I strolled in to find My German Friend’s butt projecting from underneath the Dining Room table. She pulled herself out and stood up. We admired her efforts. Meanwhile, topside, the conglomeration of stuff had been considerably reduced. However, there was still stuff that hankered for a hiding place, too. She wondered if there might be other possibilities to stash stuff. No more space under the table, I’m afraid. Looking around, the only alternative was an enormous steamer trunk… as a weird sort of pedestal for a stack of flat baskets… or a chest of drawers. I thought both would have long ago been occupied. You often sneaks in… under the cover of darkness… with grocery bags full of stuff… yes, a recurring noun when You’s involved. His word would be tesori… or, treasures… and he stores them in places, so I won’t know. Months later, he’ll pull out some ridiculous figurine he… just… could… not… live… without. My German Friend and I conducted a quick investigation. Land a goshen! Both were empty. In a jiffy, what was left of the various piles disappeared. Homeless artwork, an odd vase or two, and several objets d’art went into the trunk. All the rest went into the drawers of the chest. Surveying the Dining Room, I erupted with an… AHHH, I CAN BREATHE NOW!!! La Casa Grande’s Sala da Pranzo was transformed from an overly stocked flea-market booth into a full-fledged Dining Room. Fancy that? We did and I congratulated my German Friend for a job Germanically done well.
Oh! Another tip… call in an American too for Moral Support. Mine showed up almost immediately. She was in my neighborhood. Sort of, if Milan counts. Americans coordinate very well with Germans, too. You can even rough them up a bit, and yet they remain True Blue. You do have to serve them white wine and drive them over Hill & Dale to show off local sites & scenery, which do not exist anywhere in the US of A.
Deed done, there remained one problem. Well, two…
You made an uncharacteristically dry comment on the State of Stuff in La Casa Grande with a characteristically tone of irony.
And, the weather REFUSED to co-operate. September passed grim & grey into an even more grim & grey October. Thirty-one days of heavy cloud cover with intermittent bouts of spray. I would study the 5-10-15 day forecasts and when, at least, a sunny afternoon was predicted, I’d call the real-estate agent to book that particular afternoon. No reply. Texted him and no reply. Emailed him and no reply. This made me very angry. There are a few things that irritate me no end. I’ll forego The List to concentrate on one gracing the top of the Classifications: when I call, I expect the other person to pick-up! NO EXCUSES. NONE WHATSOEVER. And, if you cannot swing that then, I EXPECT A Return Call before the day is out. Easy. No complications. Just do it. The real-estate didn’t. Ever.
Provoked, I surprised him with a call at 8:05AM in the morning one day. A successful surprise attack. He picked-up. Ha! Informed him that in two days, the Weather Capitano had predicted a sunny afternoon in store for us. If he insisted on doing a video then, he or, whomever, should be at my proverbial front door… he can choose. I have three… to do the video. We made an appointment. OK… he said. On the appointed day, the sun was out at sunrise. The sun was out at 8:00AM. At 10:00AM. But, at 11:00 AM, it looked a bit pale. Attentively monitoring the situation, by 11:30AM the sun seemed to be communicating an imminent departure. Say towards 1:00PM. So, I called the real-estate agent to alert him to the worsening climatic conditions and to come NOW!!! And, of course, by tradition, he maintained his deplorable record of no reply. Waited and called again. No reply. Texted him. No reply. That was it.
At 4:30PM I called him and he picked up. Before he could offer an excuse, I fired him. I FELT WONDERFUL!!!
