I’ve always considered myself an unusually lucky person when it comes to real estate.
My student apartment in Montreal was all exposed brick and high ceilings. As an intern in Toronto, I shared the full top floor in a downtown warehouse. When I first left Canada with my husband, a fellow journalist, good fortune seemed to follow us: our Jerusalem flat had a sweeping view of the Old City; our Dubai villa was a marble-clad ode to petro-state excess.
Remarkably, nothing changed when we moved back to Canada in 2009. The financial meltdown had temporarily sobered the lunacy of Toronto’s housing market. We bought the first and only place we looked at — a charming red-brick Victorian on Lakeview Ave. not far from a large park. No frantic house hunt, no maniacal bidding war.
Then, sort of suddenly, we were leaving again. Last summer, my husband accepted a new job…
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