You might find this surprising, but I’ve never been a huge fan of houses, per se. I love real estate (no surprise there), but I when I got into the business years ago, I chose it more for its power to improve people’s lives, and for my love of contracts and negotiations.
Every home I’ve owned was either a reluctant choice or a home I just happened to stumble across while showing homes to clients and was able to score a great deal on — I’ve been very happy in the final analysis with every home I’ve owned, but I’ve also always prioritized location, comfort and value.
But the other day, I was thumbing though a book of luxury homes and had a "Eureka!" experience. I had found my house — the house in which I was destined to live. It even had a name: La Villa Contenta.
Or, as I said it when I told my friends and family about it, "La Villa Contentaaaaahhhhhh." Sited on eight pristine acres of lawn rolling down to Malibu shores, La Villa Contenta is a Mediterranean fantasy, complete with 18th-century amethyst chandeliers, an orchid greenhouse, secret gardens, a Hermes fireplace, Hearst Castle-style indoor pool, and a private terrace hovering above the waves of the Pacific Ocean (the better to deliver Shakespearean soliloquies from, my dear).