I have always wanted to have a family vacation home. It would make sense to own one in Wells Beach, Maine, because everyone in my family goes there. We have been going since I was a little girl. The thing is, a two-bedroom condo on the beach costs at least $389k, even in this depressed market, and I can't swing that on my own. I think I COULD swing it if my siblings were interested in doing it, too, and if everyone trusted that the rental market would take care of a large part of the costs. BUt they don't. Heck, I don't, even with the rental history right in front of me. Besides, my mom says to that: "What's the point in owning a place if you just rent it out all the time?"
Whatev. I don't want a two-bedroom condo anyway. I want a cottage-y house with wood floors and a sleeping porch. I'm beginning to think I don't even want a house in Wells. Maybe it's because I realize I'll never be able to afford it. Or maybe it's because Wells is much different now than it was when I was little.
Here is how Wells used to look:
Now, every inch along the shore has a house on it. The postcard is from around 1900. Add an Atlantic Motor Inn on the left and pave the road, though, and this looks similar to how the town looked when we were little. Some of the houses in the postcard pictures are still standing and are so pretty and weathered. Then, every three houses or so, there will be a comparative monstrosity with big ole weatherproofed windows and a winding staircase up to a lookout point turret. Seriously. Did no one think to add restrictive covenants in the titles to these properties (e.g., "You may not do dumbass things to your house that make the rest of us feel . . . uncomfortable.")
And once you get on the beach itself, it's filled with . . . I swear . . . Canadians. French speaking ones who put big blue tents up at the beach and then sit in them like cabanas. I like the French. The cabanas? Not so much. And once you get off the beach, to Route One, there is now a frenzy of McDonalds, miniature golf courses, and condos (ggggahhhh). This invites riff raff. RIFF RAFF, I say!!!! I am now. officially. old. I said "riff raff."
I guess I'm officially about to give up on the dream of owning a house there. There's another house that I am looking at somewhere else. It's in the town that inspired Blueberries for Sal. It's on a lake. We can play croquet and ping pong. And eat blueberries. With Sal. Or whomever.
But.... no ocean? No Congdons doughnuts? No..... Forbes? Buying the house in Blueberry Land would be fantastic in 100 different ways. I fear, though, that I'd end up sitting on my sleeping porch, eating blueberry pancakes and whoopie pies while my siblings were down in Wells eating fried clams at Billy's.
This will require additional rumination.
