It’s been four months since moving to Houston and so far I have lived through the coldest weather in 100 years and the deprivations it delivered upon us. I have survived several revolutions around the metropolis on the 610 “Insaneway” and a Spring Break at Port Aransas.

All of these life threatening experiences are nothing, however, when compared to what I have endured in the crucible of Houston’s real estate market. And not just Houston proper either. The hamlets of Magnolia, Katy, Spring, Tomball, Humble and the Woodlands are confidence men in this shell game.

I think I have seen over thirty listings in just a few days. The only thing more depressing than picking through the remains someone has left behind is, well, trying to buy it.

Homeownership is something I have avoided for nigh on 20 years. Not because I feel the need to spurn worldly possessions due to they suffering they cause but by virtue of living in overpriced New York City. Perhaps I could have purchased a house in Gotham but I was unwilling to fork over a million bucks for a standup bedroom with a half bath.

Apartments in Houston are palatial in comparison (as in aside, in New York it is pronounced House – Ton, like the film maker). But unless you enjoy living through Spring Break in Port A every weekend, an H-Town housing complex is no place for you.

_{The only thing more depressing than picking through the remains someone has left behind is, well, trying to buy it.}

Something about low interest rates that I don’t understand has made houses in Texas as scarce as good Italian food. Adding scores of Yankee*** refugees to the equation only makes things worse. My agent, who will be eligible for sainthood or the Peace Prize after the market stabilizes, has remained doggedly persistent and a favorable outcome is hopefully in sight.

If it doesn’t workout this time I am considering selling all my basses and guitars and investing in a sporty RV and going mobile like the Who.

That way I can live in as many places as I want, albeit in a Big Apple shoebox, but at least I can have a different front lawn whenever I choose. A year of beach front property only sets you back a measly $12 in the Texas Republic. Pull up, park and begin a new life as a beach bum from the Jimmy Buffet School of Ne’er-do-wells. You can do a lot worse than Port A or Padre Island.

Good luck finding your dream home.

***Disclaimer: John Truelove was born and raised in Bedford County, Virginia. He is not a real Yankee.