The toughest part of the process, aside from the shmoes and sharks in the real estate underground, has been vacating units. In order to create our new home (the entire top floor) and yoga school (one of the commercial units), we had to ask some very kind folks to move, or more frankly -- move out. Not a pleasant job for the karmically-minded….but who’s to say whose karma is whose. San Francisco loves its tenants (remember Michael Keaton in Pacific Heights?), and has its landlords pay a rather high fee to see them go. So we are paying, and with pockets full, they are going. I was dreaming up their angry acts of reprisal, and arrived on the scene cowering -- a sheet-white, wimpy new landlord. Aside from the gruff construction dude in the garage (think Billy Bob in Slingblade), who has since chummed up to John in a builder-to-builder kind of way, all parties have thankfully been amenable and understanding. Good thing too -- we declined the terrorism insurance.
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