A Life in Progress

. . .Continued from April 3, 2006

After what seemed like our hundredth 15-minute viewing, we had finally found an apartment we wanted--a cozy two-bedroom place with an open floor plan and a balcony, close to everything worth being close to. Never mind the fact that I had spent more time picking out a pair of shoes than we had spent picking out this apartment--It was time to bid.

If we were doing this deal in the States, we would summon our realtor, who would arrive with his fancy car filled with a forest-worth of paper that would cost us an evening of quality Discovery Channel viewing to fill out. Although we would have already secured a pre-approved loan from the bank for the full asking price, we would bid between 5 to 10 % under that figure. Our realtor would then don a support belt to avoid rupturing a disk and deliver the weighty matter along with a sizeable check from us to show the depth of our sincerity to the seller’s realtor. After a few days, our realtor would show up again with a counteroffer, and eventually we’d have a deal. . . .or not. In this slow and cumbersome process, patience is the key.

To my husband and me, the bidding ritual in the States seemed like a long, sincere courtship, one where you had time to think things through, to plan your next move—or discretely break it off. The same process in Sweden felt like “wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am,” a whirlwind of a round-robin auction where the asking price is just a starting point for a process that could easily spiral out of control. In this game, patience is less important than having nerves of steel. Since my nerves are more like aluminium, my steely-nerved husband got to handle the bidding.

We had put our name on a list of those interested in the Södermalm apartment. A few days later, KA got a call from the realtor asking if we were interested in placing a bid. KA bid 10,000 SEK over the most recent bid, then called me at work to inform me.

I felt my aluminum nerves warping already. Despite the fact that we had worked out what we could afford, I felt as if we were really out of our league bidding in five figure increments, knowing that we were going to end up paying six figures if we landed the place. Somehow, placing bids in Swedish crowns with their exchange rate of approximately 10 to 1 made me feel uncomfortable--as if we were buying a mansion we couldn’t afford instead of an apartment. I swigged down the last of my watered-down version of Swedish coffee and told him to keep me informed.

An hour later, he called back. “OK—we've bid another 80,000 over our last bid.”

A co-worker who happened to be in my office almost got a face-full of coffee. “Geez!” I choked, struggling to get my breath as my frightened co-worker fled for the safety of the hallway. “How many others are we bidding against?” I asked as I tried to remember the others at the viewing, wondering if they were better prepared to spend millions than we were. “There’s six right now,” he said. "The realtor will collect bids from each bidder until all but one has dropped out."

“How do we know that the realtor or the seller’s friends aren’t in there running up the bid?” I asked. “We don’t,” said KA. “Thanks. That’s certainly a load off my mind. Keep me posted,” I said, making no attempt to hide my anxiety.

Sensing my growing hysteria, my husband wisely decided to leave me out of the next couple rounds. By the time he called again, he had pledged another 50,000 over our last bid. Here I am, sitting at work while my husband throws our money around like a drunken sailor. I felt the color draining rapidly from my face, just like the money in our bank account. “That’s about it, isn’t it? I mean, we can’t go much higher, can we?” I asked. He told me there were only three bidders left in the running. “You’re right. We’re about done here, but don't give up yet—maybe the others will drop out now.”

It was over later that afternoon. My phone buzzed and danced with excitement on the conference table as I sat in a meeting, and I scooped it up and darted out to the hall. “Well? We’re out, right?” I asked, always the optimist. I grabbed the door frame for support when he answered my question. We won! We were the last bidders left standing, and the apartment was ours…for 1,720,000 Swedish crowns!

1.7 million!--Just a hair under the maximum we could afford. KA did fine, but I still couldn’t handle the “million” thing. I stood there in the hallway repeating the reality silently to myself: We spent almost TWO MILLION. Two million-jillion. A veritable crap-load of money. Megabucks. Beaucoup Bucks. Two Freak’n Million. A lot of dough. Dough. Food. A sudden irrational thought: We’ve spent so much on this damn place, we’ll be eating baloney the rest of our lives. I wondered how many different ways one can you fix baloney. Aside from the pedestrian baloney sandwich, I knew for sure you could fry it. One of KA’s cousins in Missouri fixed us fried baloney one time when we were visiting…Wait! What the heck am I thinking?

After I regained my composure, I returned to the meeting, not hearing a single word until the moderator asked me something about a documentation project. Instead of getting a coherent status report, he got a barely audible, “I just bought an apartment.” “Congratulations!” the moderator said, and the group smiled and nodded in agreement. “Aren’t you happy,” he asked, looking with concern at my shell-shocked expression. “Me? Yeah, of course I am,” I said, turning my glazed eyes toward him. The group began talking about how I'd be spending my time for the next few months: painting, fixing, visits to IKEA. They must have been a little surprised when I stirred from my stupor and asked, “Do you know if they sell baloney in the grocery stores here?”