We’re just haggling about price

Someone offered to buy my half-finished Spain renovation

A story that has been told of almost every modern celebrity beginning with President Wilson and H. G. Wells: A famous man at a charity banquet asks the beautiful young woman next to him, “Assuming that we gave the money to charity, would you sleep with me for a million dollars?” After some thought she says, “Yes.”

“And would you for two dollars?”

“Why, what do you think I am!”

“We’ve already decided that. Now we’re just haggling about price.”

There is some dispute about where this story comes from—but I often think about it if I’m uncertain how committed I am to a certain idea, or a particular course of action.

For example: this renovation project in rural Spain. The one I’ve basically been completely stalled on just waiting to get a permit from the town hall. How committed am I, really? If someone offered me enough money, would I walk away?

I’ll get to that.

The fact is, a lot of people throw around a lot of beliefs, and most of them lack conviction. You know this because they’re unwilling to put money behind their beliefs. If you ask someone how much they believe in something, you’ll get a number pulled practically out of thin air. If you ask them instead: how much money would you be willing to put on it, then you have some real information.

Some years ago I started using this fact in my parenting. My son was around eight or nine and was forming lots of very certain opinions. But he responded well to financial incentives just like the rest of us. So I started asking him to back up his opinions with real money.

Sometimes, he’d drop something immediately, not willing to put even a dollar on his conviction. Other times, we would make a bet: $5, $10. The habit has continued into his teenage years. Occasionally, he has won some money off me this way (He was right, for example, that Apple was indeed worth more than a trillion dollars, a bet he won’t ever let me forget).

Lots of people shut down completely if I ask how much money they’d put on something. They don’t like the idea of betting. It seems uncouth. Their whole life is governed by financial incentives—but asked to put a dollar amount to a belief system, they recoil.

I think many people have never had to truly account for their beliefs. And besides, I don’t see it as betting, so much as leveraging a universally understood way to make the theoretical real.

So back to the renovation project in Catalunya.

When I express the opinion that you should invest in place, I have literally put my money where my mouth is.

Buying a cheap property somewhere is for me the right amount of commitment. It’s not forever, but it is substantial. There is a fair amount of friction if I want to get out of it.

And in the meantime, I’m living in somewhat of a construction zone, nothing but a small paraffin heater struggling to warm up a room full of crumbling concrete (like actually crumbling: in November I almost fell through the floor when a big chunk came loose).

I’ve temporarily patched holes in the ceiling up to the third level with pieces of cardboard. I hang a blanket between rooms to keep in the heat. I’ve been cooking meals on a camp stove for months. Before taking a shower, I have to plug in the hot water heater. After, I mop up whatever has splashed over the tiny shower pan. I’m crossing my fingers more tiles don’t fall off the wall.

I indeed play up the hardships sometimes. That’s because the romanticism of it all is already evident. Americans moving to Spain or Italy to restore old stone homes is already something of a cottage industry. I don’t need to tell you how romantic it is—there are Hollywood films about what I’m doing, and infinite Substacks and Instagram accounts.

But I have been frustrated at the lack of progress. The best days are the days when I actually get to build something. The worst days are the ones where I’m so confused about Catalan bureaucracy and the technical sheets of building materials that I feel it’s hopeless.

Of course, it would be easy to get overwhelmed, and I was feeling that way before the holidays. Much of what I’ve learned so far on this project is just patience. How to deal with Spanish time. To take every week without progress as an opportunity to just focus on other things: my work, climbing, writing.

It was in all of the above context that my Catalan climber friend asked me in January: would you be willing to sell?

He has been helping out with the family real estate business, showing potential buyers around the town. Only, there just aren’t that many options.

Another belief I have put my own money on: Cornudella de Montsant is a good investment.

This town is only getting more popular. More climbers are looking to do what I’ve done. And there are nearby industries like wine tourism that bring a lot of non-climbers with money to spend. Just visiting the town of Siurana itself brings tourists to the area. Rentals in Cornudella are scarce. So are cheap properties to buy.

My place has a lot of potential in this regard: the plan is two independent apartments, a two-bedroom and a one-bedroom. Someone could live in one and rent the other, or just keep space for visitors. The house is big, but not too big. I must say: I do have an eye for real estate.

So when my friend asked if I’d be willing to sell, my gut response was what I’ve always said in such situations: there’s a price for everything.

Plus, he had caught me at a somewhat emotionally vulnerable moment. Personal issues.

After thinking, I casually named what felt like an appropriately high price—roughly twice what I’d paid for it. A few weeks later, feeling an opportunity to move money around for other priorities (another story, for a later post), I lowered the price by ten thousand euros.

The price was still high—higher than what his dad, the real estate agent, said the property was likely worth. But a property is worth what one buyer is willing to pay, and the seller to accept.

And so my friend’s casual question led to several viewings—and to an emotional reckoning. Was I really willing to sell? To abandon the project? To make a dramatic move and refocus my energies on other endeavors?

Yes—there’s a price for everything.

Then, I got an offer. It was a relatively low offer.

I spent the weekend contemplating my various attachments and life decisions.

So it is that the beauty of having money at stake clarifies one’s thinking: I was willing to give up the project, relieve myself of all this stress, free up my time and mental bandwidth to pursue other goals, and explain it all to you dear readers… for a certain price.

But below that price, I was still attached to the work, to the learning, to the romance, to plugging away at an old stone renovation project in Spain, poco a poco.

If you’re struggling with an important life decision I would suggest running a thought experiment might be clarifying: what could someone pay you to make you choose one way or another?

For me, opening the door to a sale helped clarify a few things.

First, I know this isn’t my forever home. One day I’ll move. At that point, I’ll either sell or rent this place out long-term.

Second, I can change my mind about this project if I want to. My own priorities are what’s important, not what others might be expecting of me.

Three, I’m willing to sell, but I’m not aching to sell. The cost of letting this project sit is not that high—and besides, I’ve got world-class climbing in one of the most beautiful areas in the world just up the road. Every time I’m at the crag is a reminder of how lucky I am to be doing this.

In the end, the buyers were willing to go only so high, and me only so low.

So the work continues. I am crossing my fingers the permit comes through this month. The weather is warming. The heater is not needed as much. And I am happy every time I make even a little progress, saw and pencil and level in hand.

On Spanish time.