Soil, Surveys, and Stilettos
They say the foundation of any good relationship is trust. But what about the foundation of a house? Last week, Jonathan and I pondered that very question over martinis in Twin Peaks, San Francisco, California—because obviously, this is how grown-ups process existential crises—while our four dogs stared at us like, “Really? Dirt again?”
Enter Keithleen: unofficial documentarian, miracle worker, part-time saint. Thanks to her timestamped photos, we experienced every muddy, glorious moment of the soil investigation in Buenos Aires, Dontogan, Benguet—without ever leaving San Francisco. Live stream? Please. This was couture-level documentation. (I half expected her to add a filter and a soundtrack.)
The dogs, naturally, had opinions. The Shih Tzu judged the excavator for being “too loud.” The Pekingese rolled his eyes: “Darling, dirt is not haute couture.” The Westie barked something about “structural integrity,” and the Cocker Spaniel, hopeless romantic, wagged as if he already envisioned his bowl sparkling under recessed lighting. (Clearly, someone’s priorities are in order.)
Watching boreholes plunge six meters deep, I realized: building a home is a lot like writing a love story. Soil testing? The awkward first date. A flirtation with the earth. And just when sparks were flying—Benguet rain crashed the scene. Nothing like a downpour to ruin your blowout… or your borehole. (Cue dramatic sigh.)
But here’s the thing about construction—and marriage—you don’t quit at the first storm. You pack up. Dry off. Come back tomorrow. The poetry isn’t in perfection; it’s in the pause. In the waiting. (Patience: not just a virtue, but apparently, a building material.)
Ah, the waiting. Whether it’s soil results, topography surveys, or the perfect pair of shoes going on sale at Saks Fifth, the in-between is where the drama lives. Our dream house isn’t just flirting anymore; it’s plotting its walls, windows, and yes… even its martini bar.
Reality, of course, always arrives wearing steel-toe boots. Contracts to sign. Hazards to mitigate (someone actually said “cobra barriers”). Fiduciary duties to navigate. Dual agency in California? Like dating two people at once: legal, but only if you’re honest, awake, and armed with a very good prenup. (Note to self: martinis help with tough negotiations.)
So the other night, we toasted—two martinis, two olives, shaken not stirred—to everyone who braved the mud and the rain in Benguet, Baguio. Because sometimes, the foundation of a house isn’t poured in concrete. It’s poured in community. In the people who stand beside you when you’re ankle-deep in soil or knee-deep in paperwork. (Cheers to that.)
And as the dogs curled at our feet, tails wagging in perfect rhythm, I couldn’t help but wonder:
When it comes to building a life—or a house—what do we really stand on? The ground beneath our feet… or the love that keeps us upright when the earth shifts?
