Idealista is the go-to property website in Spain (it also holds the same status in Italy and Portugal). It’s the perfect place to fritter away an hour of your life imagining a fresh start in Zaragoza, Valencia or a leafy suburb of Madrid (or to simply see how much your neighbours are selling their home for). Though it takes some getting used to, there’s a little tool that enables you to draw a search box on a map with the accuracy of a military drone operator. You can, for instance, pull up homes on a single street and then add numerous search filters. Nowhere can escape. As always, one of the treats of this diversion is seeing the interior lives that people have in various cities – for me, that’s Palma. Via a clickable carousel of images, you can suddenly wander around an apartment building whose lobby has always seemed to be the gateway to a world of modernist joy (sadly, it rarely is).
One Spanish quirk has become evident over time. When, say, a dear abuela has had her final tortilla, the heirs seem to waste no time in whacking that apartment up for sale without even pausing to perhaps re-style the place just a little. I regularly feel like Detective Tuck as I enter a large yet strangely cheap residence. “Something dark has happened here,” I think. My suspicions increase as I click on the first picture showing the entrance hall and notice a Zimmer frame pushed up against the wall. Then, I go into the kitchen that last had a refit in the 1980s and spy a wheelchair, with the footrests folded away, never to be taken on an evening tour of the neighbourhood again. In the bathroom I spot packets of unopened medicines by the sink, their efficacy now in question. At this point, I am confident that Señora Sanchez has left the building for the final time. But, if further proof were needed, in the main bedroom there are two single beds, each piled up with black bin bags. And staring down on the scene – a picture of Christ. I have yet to see the corpse but feel it is only a matter of time before an image shows a startled undertaker.
In the UK, with its patchy-at-best property market, there are regular newspaper columns and TV shows that tell you how to get your home pimped to be sale ready. Methods include anything from maintaining a tidy regime that would make Marie Kondo look like a slovenly hoarder to ensuring that there are always vases of freshly cut flowers and the aroma of coffee lingering in the air (a hybrid vibe of florist-cum-Starbucks seems to be what’s needed to loosen people’s wallets). The people I know who are trying to sell a home find this process exhausting – keeping up the façade of a perfect life is draining and the flowers soon wilt, along with the willpower. Of course, not everyone is with the programme. This week one colleague presented me with pictures of a house that he’s trying to buy, which looks like the set of a Wes Anderson movie. There are so many startlingly mismatched wallpapers that it feels as though you are entering an art installation. There’s also a house for sale near me in which the owner has a stuffed baboon perched by the fireplace. Well, I think it’s stuffed.
Then something I hadn’t seen before. A friend shows me a house for sale in London, letting me swipe through the shots on his phone. It looks great; way too prepped but immaculate. There are the flowers, the table is set for dinner and even the artwork is interesting. When I express my enthusiasm, he says that the problem is that it is a smelly wreck and points me towards a caption explaining that the rooms have been decorated digitally – none of this exists. There goes the job of the property prop primers.
I wonder whether this trend will take off in Spain. I hope not. The undertaker-has-just-left look makes you start wondering how you might reconfigure a space, while keeping the terrazzo floor, of course. Perhaps you would also hold on to the brightly tiled yellow bathroom, while perhaps shifting Christ’s watchful eye from above the bed (that can’t help entice any conjugal shenanigans). Or perhaps the digital makeover tool could have “dead abuela” as a setting, allowing you to transform a dull but OK space into an exciting doer-upper.
The threat to my detective work has made me a little nervous about a future where everything is perfect and no room is left for imagination. It has also made me realise how grateful I am to the impatient Spanish property heirs keen to offload granny’s old apartment at pace.