We were supposed to see “The Watchmaker’s Home” the morning after we arrived, but the agent had called us the night before as we were settling into the B & B.

“The owners had an emergency, they wouldn’t be home tomorrow. I have to cancel our appointment.” The American in me was confused. Why did the owners have to be there to show a house? This was my introduction into the quirky ins and outs of French real estate and just the tip of the iceberg when it came to the cultural differences and norms of agents and their clients!

Unapologetically, she asked if we could come back in a month.

By that time, though, we will be back in Pittsburgh, an ocean away. My heart sank. The agent and I had become so connected in the past three months that her callousness took me by surprise. In the U.S., apologies would be spilling from the listing agent, trying to keep a good relationship, all while still make a potential sale. In France, however, she seemed to shrug off the months we had spent building a rapport with one another. This surprised me a bit. From all of my experiences, time spent and accumulated experiences were the keystones of relationships in France.

“Doesn’t she want to sell the house?” Andy said, looking a bit perplexed. A gave a slight shrug.

Covid had ground the housing market to a complete halt, shutting down boarders and not allowing foreigners, who we were told were one of the biggest buyers of French real estate, access to properties. This, of course, ended up being a major benefit to us, as prices dipped significantly and homes sat on the market for months at a time.

We had planned four visits in the region, two we had visited while driving from Perpignan to Carcassonne the day before. The first was located in Magalas, a medieval village known for its winemaking and location near the Black Mountains. The other was conveniently located just a short drive away in Pouzolle, another village whose parameters were surrounded by vines and cobbled streets lined with ancient stone homes.

The other in the beach town of Vendres, a tiny commune bordering the Mediterranean Sea. “You can bike to the Mediterranean in under 15 minutes,” the agent said as she unlatched the shutters. Despite pulling all of the shutters wide open, the home still resembled a dank cave. The town was cute and the location was fantastic, but the house had zero appeal.

Andy took a step outside to size the house up.

“The house looks like it has three floors, but we only visited two. How do you access the top level,” he asked, looking from the agent to the third level.

“You don’t actually. That is your neighbor’s home. His house is in an L shape,” she explained, outlining the shape of the house with her index finger.

“So, what happens if your neighbor springs a leak and it comes into your house?”

The agent thought about this scenario for a moment then said in the most frank of terms, “you must hope your neighbor fixes it and is willing to assess your damage.”

My eyes got wide. I was half way through David Lebovitz’s book “L’Apart” where he laments over and over about his interactions with French contractors and neighbors who’s favorite phrase when problems arose were “pas ma faulte.” Something told me the rest of the book wasn’t dedicated to a change in this behavior.