It Just Feels Like Home
01/22/03
I love living in El Dorado Hills. As one of my friends said recently, "it is a gem of a place to raise a family." It was also an unlikely destination for the Savas family.
After college in 1986, my wife-to-be and I packed everything we owned into our cars and headed west to San Jose. I opened a law practice, marriage and a family followed, and we stayed happily put for twelve years. Two years of purgatory followed in northern Iowa (don't ask). We were dying to move back to California, but where? The Bay Area (a.k.a. Traffic Jam Central) had become clogged with people and housing prices had skyrocketed during our absence.
"Move to El Dorado Hills!" advised my brother Anthony, a Realtor who has lived here since the early 1990s. Our sporadic visits to EDH had been hit-and-run affairs. Arrive early, watch a football game, have dinner, leave after dark. It always struck me as a sleepy spot on the way to Lake Tahoe. A place to fill up for expensive gas.
Once I had stopped laughing I managed to blurt out, "Are you out of your mind?" I reminded him that we were already living in the boonies (Iowa). Why trade living in a cheap nowhere for a more expensive nowhere? By week's end, digital house photos were timing-out my server, and brochures were spilling out of our mailbox. Three days later my wife booked a pair of tickets for a week-long visit.
It took a one-hour tour of the area for us to fall in love with this clean and picturesque community. There was a palpable vibrancy of life here (although after two years in small town Iowa, Mayberry would have felt energetic). The housing market was booming, Folsom had erupted into a shopping magnet, and family-driven soccer matches were everywhere. Lake Tahoe (and everything else the mountains have to offer), a major airport, the ocean and Silicon Valley were all within easy driving distance. And to top it off, the people were startlingly friendly--everywhere we went, be it the post office, grocery store, or standing next to strangers at a sporting event.
"It just feels like home," my surprised wife whispered to her equally stunned husband. "If we can find a good school that suits our needs, we're moving!" The ducks kept falling into line. We found the right place in Golden Hills School, a small private affair that met out needs and convinced us to pull the trigger. By week's end we had a house in escrow and a firm game plan.
We flew back to Iowa with grins plastered on our faces and sold our house within 60 days. I get chills thinking of how fortunate we were, because many other homes in our old neighborhood are still on the market two years later. I guess it was all meant to be.
Newcomers to EDH are not hard to spot. The other day I ran into a woman at the post office who was obviously unsure how to respond to a smile from a friendly stranger who not only held open the door for her, but let her move ahead in the line. When she opened her purse to remove a small package, her keys fell to the floor. Another patron beat me to the punch by quickly picking them up and handing them to her without a word as he passed by. A look that can only be described as "puzzled" crossed her face.
"Are you new to El Dorado Hills?" I inquired.
"Yes," she answered quickly, sounding a bit irritable and tense.
"What part of the Bay Area are you from," I inquired.
Her eyes widened. "How did you know we came up from San Mateo?"
"Half the people moving here are from the Bay," I laughed, after which I provided an abbreviated account of our own experiences. "Welcome to El Dorado Hills," I concluded.
For the first time she offered a warm smile in my direction and extended her hand. "It will take some getting used to," she chuckled. "My name is Gail. I am certain we will love living up here."
I don't doubt it for a second.
