As a former Realtor, one of the things I will confess to missing the most is the ability to view inside interesting homes, if they’ve captured my attention while driving by.
I also miss the Realtor Tour/Open House that the industry typically did weekly to showcase new listings. Which I will also confess was frequently enhanced by snacks or meals to lure us all in, back when the market was soft. Nothing like hot roast beef on a bun to take the sting out of a soft market.
I had a point somewhere with all this preamble. Recently, I was driving along and I spotted a new listing that I had always admired in my own neighbourhood and I just couldn’t resist. I fell victim to the curb appeal, the siren song of the clearly inviting home. While no longer part of the fraternity, my inner lookie-loo took control of my feet and drew me inside.
While it has been many years since I’ve been licensed, I did presume that after some 17 years of writing a regular column here for REM, the listing agent would recognize me and allow me to just wander alone to view the property. It’s nice to have cachet.
I was not recognized though – or perhaps the agent hosting simply did a marvellous job of suppressing his enthusiasm at meeting me in person. I suspect he had me sign in to a “guest register” just to gain my autograph, or confirm his suspicion.
Even by signing in under my typical pseudonym though, I was not allowed to simply roam freely. There was a brief disclosure form to fill out.
By the time I was starting to fill out the third page of the personal information preview agreement, I became aware of a colleague assisting with the open house. The listing agent had been busy distracting me while his partner applied a tracking bracelet onto my leg. As I glanced out the living room window, an appraiser was discreetly writing up a valuation on my SUV. Hearing a cough over in the kitchen, I spotted a mortgage broker laying out further documents to help qualify me, should I have further interest once I had a chance to look over the property.
Finally, I was free to tour the home. Both agents lagged a bit behind while I viewed the property. One excused himself after his smartphone buzzed, likely to follow up on information returned from my credit check.
It was as nice inside as I had imagined, but I couldn’t put my finger on why I seemed to like it even more than I thought I would. Then I concentrated on the background music, which I had presumed earlier to be some sort of Gregorian chanting. It was, but the chant was “buy this house, buy this house” repeated over and over in increasingly compelling tones.
I determined that I had to get out of the home before I did something I would regret, like ask what the list price was. I retreated hastily past the group, drove off, but then spotted yet another open house down the block.
That’s when my ankle vibrated, as the tracking bracelet alerted the last agent that I was still snooping around. I stayed in my car and drove far enough away to have it quit sending a signal.
That’s also when I woke up, as it turned out to be my iPhone that was doing the vibrating. What a crazy dream – electronic client tracking, on-site mortgage brokers – maybe I better lay off reading the real estate section before I go to bed at night.
Humour columnist and author Dan St. Yves was licensed with Royal LePage Kelowna for 11 years. Check out his website at danstyves.com.
