We’re walking along a paved road flanked by a green cocoon of trees. It’s dusk, and the air is a pleasant balance of heavy humidity and late-spring chill. “Look,” she gestures, pointing to our left, where the foliage reveals a grassy hillside. There is an old homestead, its huge windows surrounded by thick wooden planks.

It almost looks abandoned, until, upon closer inspection, I realize it’s meticulously maintained, precise in its subtleness. Wildflowers pepper the hill leading up to the home, but there are no weeds in sight. Waning daylight transforms the windows into movie screens. Inside, dark polished concrete floors lie beneath a couch draped with kilims in vivid, saturated jewel tones—plums and emeralds. A massive photo occupies most of the wood-paneled wall.

We walk on, winding along the road until we can see more of the home. Now, there are stained-glass windows; they must have come from an old church. I can only imagine their effect from inside, where surely there’s a living room with polished leather armchairs and minimal—although not minimalist—decor.

It is warm; it is eclectic; it is understated; it is curated. It exudes creativity and culture, restraint and hospitality.

I dreamt of this place a few weeks ago and have been craving it ever since. Someone once told me dreams about houses are dreams about ourselves—different rooms represent different aspects of our personalities. I don’t know about all that, but I do know I can’t get this place out of my head. Which is ironic, since my head is where it all began.


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