From Santa Barbara to Twin Peaks: How We Bought Our San Francisco Dream Home (Without the Victorian I Always Wanted)
From Santa Barbara to Twin Peaks: How We Found Our San Francisco Dream Home
by Richard Valdez - www.richardvaldezre.com
When my husband and I sold our fully renovated home in Santa Barbara in February 2021, we had one thing on our minds: San Francisco. We both knew we wanted to be back in the city, and we weren’t just open to any neighborhood. We had our hearts set on Eureka Valley, Noe Valley, or maybe Cow Hollow. I was chasing the charm of a Victorian single-family home with a garage big enough to park our beloved Range Rover SUV.
With $1.8 million in all-cash funds, we thought we had a realistic shot at landing a light fixer in 60 days or less. After all, we had just gone through the blood, sweat, and drywall of gut-renovating our Santa Barbara house back in 2016. We weren’t afraid of a little project. But this was also the height of the pandemic. The market was strange—tight inventory, no weekend open houses, and by-appointment-only showings that made house-hunting feel like dating during a blackout. Despite all of that, I was laser-focused: Victorian or nothing. And if the universe was feeling generous, maybe with a view of the city, too.
We had a ticking clock—the sale of our Santa Barbara home came with terms that gave us just two months to find our next place. So we went all in. Every day was spent scrolling through listings, scheduling showings, driving around neighborhoods. But after 30 days of relentless searching, nothing was sticking. Either the floor plan was all wrong, the price was completely unrealistic for a fixer, or the neighborhood didn’t feel like home. My husband—eternally practical—was growing impatient. “I really don’t want to move twice once we get to the city,” he said. And I understood.
After weeks of living out of a suitcase, dogs in tow, bouncing between hotel rooms, it was wearing on us both. I had just finished my real estate coursework at Santa Barbara City College, and now my first client was… us. I realized I had to pivot, to widen the net, to be creative. I started looking at places I hadn’t even considered before: St. Francis Wood, the Marina, Hayes Valley, even the Mission. We toured a few homes in those areas, but nothing felt right. Some felt sterile, others had floor plans that just didn’t make sense for our lives, and a few were in neighborhoods that made us uncomfortable.
Then, like a pebble in my shoe, there was one listing that kept popping up in my search. A mid-century home in Twin Peaks. Now, Twin Peaks wasn’t even in my filter. And honestly, mid-century architecture wasn’t on my radar. I had always envisioned myself surrounded by ornate moldings, stained glass transoms, and pocket doors. I didn’t think our furniture, or even my personality, would fit a mid-century space. But I couldn’t deny one thing: every time we drove through Twin Peaks—especially coming in from our long 5-hour drive from Santa Barbara—the view of the San Francisco skyline and Mission Bay gave me this strange sense of warmth. Like the city was hugging us, welcoming us home. It reminded me of something my best friend—who passed away some years ago—used to say when we worked in the city together: “San Francisco always knows how to greet you.”
So, I showed the listing to Jon and said, “There’s nothing left on the market in the neighborhoods we want. But there’s this one house... not Victorian, but... maybe?” He looked at it and simply said, “Call and schedule the viewing.” The day we arrived to see it, I was already biased. From the outside, it wasn’t “me.” It wasn’t the dream I had been holding onto. But the agent led us into the main living area, and when I looked out the windows, I saw Diamond Heights, Noe Valley, and even a shimmering slice of Mission Bay. The view was mesmerizing. The interiors were staged in a modern-transitional style, and surprisingly, something clicked. I imagined our antique pieces, our oversized velvet armchairs, our heavy wooden tables—and I saw them working in this space. Suddenly, my Victorian fantasy didn’t seem so absolute. This home didn’t need any work. We could move in as-is.
And I realized I didn’t need ornate trim to feel at home. What I needed was light, calm, connection, and maybe a view to remind me I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
So we made the offer. We bought the house. We moved in. Now, every evening, as I sit in the living room with my cocktail in hand and the sky turning lavender over the hills, I can’t help but wonder: Was I chasing a Victorian dream when what I really needed… was a mid-century reality check? Maybe the columns and corbels were just architectural red herrings—and all I truly needed was a city view, a place to park the Range Rover, and a husband who didn’t want to move twice. And just like that… I traded crown moldings for clean lines—and found my happily ever after in a house with no doilies in sight.
