How Donald Trump Got Me My Dream House

A ridiculous and somewhat untrue title

My favorite view from my balcony

I promised myself that if I got the house I wanted, I’d write something with this title. Why? Because in the middle of a housing crisis, with only my charm left to rely on, I broke through that awkward barrier between renters and owners by talking about Trump.

The connection was already there, between me and the owner—shy but present. But it was that moment, standing on my future patio with my feet hot in my boots, a sliver of sunshine touching the concrete, when we launched into a conversation about how embarrassed I am by Trump and the state of my country. That was when I felt it click. I knew.

The thing is, I was getting desperate. I was visiting depressing little “pavillons” that felt like sterile boxes, often on dead, grassless lots. Worse were the cramped, moldy-smelling houses with weird wallpaper or, to make matters worse, a pretty country house that absolutely reeked of cat piss. It brought my 14-year-old son to tears just thinking about the bus rides it would add to his already overloaded school schedule. He’s at school from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. most days.

The rejections rolled in. I started filling out paperwork for anything that had standing walls and running water, feeling both relieved and defeated when I didn’t get the places I applied for. I even joked about setting up a tent on the hill behind our house.

That hill, the one we can see from our second-story kitchen window, was one of the reasons I chose this home. We’ve been here for almost 10 years. Last night, my eldest son showed the mark on the doorframe of how small his brother had been when we first moved here. Back then, when they were 4 and 6, they’d take our wolf dog, Izo, and race to that hilltop. We’d yell “echo” back and forth, and their voices would come bouncing back across the valley. I’ll miss that view.

But more than the view, it’s all the living we did here. The pirate ship we built out of cardboard that took over the living room. The somewhat failed Christmas tree made from piled-up books, leaning precariously to one side. The forts we constructed in their rooms out of egg containers, painted cardboard, blankets, and toys. The art projects that filled up the living room, so much that we had to hop foot to foot to navigate through it all. The tears and tantrums—the broken window from a fist. The fort I made in the yard out of branches. Wrestling with that almost carnivorous tree in the yard, its hand-long spikes and curling branches clawing at us. The melted wax that covered the floors as I worked on my art, melting and carving late into the night. Watching car headlights create moving lines and shadows across the walls, the flickering streetlights that went on and off all night, turning the room into something alive.

And then there was the garbage truck—like clockwork—turning the darkening living room into a disco party with its lights, the strange rhythm of it all. My eldest son making us dinner for the first time, proudly serving it to us. And us, piling into my bed afterward to watch movies together, the three of us, cozy and safe in this house.

I’ve had my heart shattered in this house, and I fell in love here, too. I dug and hacked at the earth, growing tomatoes and zucchini. I leave behind raspberry bushes and strawberries. I’ve spent hours recording videos of the gutter in front of the house, the lights, the people passing by. But my favorite thing of all was sitting out on the porch under my red umbrella, looking out across the valley, writing letters to Amy, poems, and journals.  

In a weird synchronicity, this is one year ago to the day.

I have loved this house; I have been happy here. I used to dance with the kids, clearing all the furniture in the living room, dimming the lights. It had been a rough time before, but in this house, I found a way to breathe again. I found a way to live again.

This house has been more than just shelter; it gave me back my life. After a deeply unhappy marriage and a painful divorce, I felt dead inside for a long time. It felt like a sign when, each evening, starlings would perform their mesmerizing murmurations in the sky above the valley. At the time, I was working on a video project with a dancer, desperately searching for exactly this footage. The birds’ swirling movements echoed the freedom I had been longing for—freedom to finally live again.

(this is the video I ended up making with the murmuration footage from my balcony)

Now, I’ve found a new home. I’m thrilled about the neighborhood—excited for the sound of the Charente River, a view of the city, and wide-open places for the kids to play. There’s even a soccer field that I could practically throw an egg into from my bedroom window (maybe).

I should be packing instead of writing this. It’s all happening so fast, and we’re moving this weekend. But I can already see it: the games we’ll play, the parties we’ll throw, the meals we’ll share, and the life we’ll build. This is the start of something new, a place not just to write, but to live in. My sons will get braces in this house, teeth will fall, fights will break out, and dogs will chase after balls. Dance parties will happen, friends will gather for dinner, girlfriends will come into bedrooms. Drawings will be sketched, white dog hair will float through the air, and soccer balls will leave their marks on the walls. Books will be read and written, tests studied for—a whole life unfolding in this place. It’s the importance of territory, of having a home where all these moments can happen. All the things we will do.

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Here’s the letter:

Dear House I'm in love with, the one I want to rent,

I try not to think of you as I wait, counting the days until I hear if I can call you home. I truly did my best with your people—they felt familiar, like I’d known them already. I tried to play it cool, having learned that in France, exuberance looks suspicious. So I let them know I wanted to live in you and made a beautiful dossier to prove that I could deserve you. But inside, I wanted to kneel before them and say, "Pick me, pick our family—even though we have less money than the others—pick us because we are great, and we need a place to live."

Your walls were white and bare, and though I couldn’t quite superimpose all my things into your brightness, into your walls of windows, I can see us in the backyard, under the awning, with the view of the hills of Angoulême in the distance. I joke that we’ll have to put up a tent on the plateau across the valley where we live now if we can’t find a house, just so we can gaze at the new owners cutting back the somewhat carnivorous trees. But seriously, house, my situation is becoming desperate, and I need you. I love you and I want to write in you.

I imagine living in this house, in this dynamic neighborhood, where the background noise of cars in my current home will transform into the voices of children playing soccer, people strumming guitars, and the sound of skateboard wheels spinning across the plaza. I picture sending my eldest son out for a baguette and slowly wandering on sunny weekend mornings to the market.

I see myself writing in you, in every one of your rooms, your big, bright rooms. Your staircase, winding upward, stirs some unreachable childhood memory—a sunlit staircase in another house, with tall ceilings and the feeling of the countryside. I want to live in you, house, and my situation is becoming a little desperate. I only have one month left in this house I also love, with its view of the valley. But I am tired of sweeping the flooded basement, and I’ve heard that you are flood-proof, despite your proximity to the fast currents of the Charente River. I could walk just two city blocks to the forest and river if I lived in you. Maybe I’d even be able to hear the river from my lit room, full of quiet corners to write in.

And I want to make art in you. I want to put my big press in that garage and finally finish this long-standing project within your walls. Tell them to pick me, house. Tell them to pick me and my boys. Tell them we need a home. We’ve been visiting cramped houses where the views are only of other people’s living rooms, bedrooms so small that only a bed fits, kitchens where I’d have to chop vegetables on the floor. Tell them to choose me, and I’ll write ten thousand words, ten million words, within your walls.

Love,

Sandolore

Projects in the house and the first day the boys visited it.