Home Hunt
HOME HUNT
PART I
The new year brought with it another major lifestyle change. I finally started looking into buying a place of my own.
It might come as a shock to hear that I was a thirty-year-old guy still living with his mum. I don’t generally give off basement-dweller vibes, so I can imagine that might come as a surprise. Having said that, staying with your parents into your late twenties or early thirties is hardly unusual in Malta. For starters, we don’t really need to move out to go to college or university on account of the island being so small. Second, plenty of people wait until they have their life somewhat in order before they leave. Third, buying a place in Malta can feel like selling your soul to the devil – unless you’re one of the lucky few who was born into money or somehow turned into a real estate mogul. Spoiler alert: I wasn’t either of those two.
Money, Time and Freedom
So why move? Well, while I wasn’t particularly unhappy with my living arrangement, I didn’t wanna be a thirty-year-old guy still living with his mother forever. Also, back home, I had fallen into a routine that, on most days, felt almost suffocating. I needed a new living environment. I needed my own space. And I needed it to be mine.
Up until a few months earlier, I’d always feared that having my own place would chain me to Malta. Eventually, I realised that wasn’t necessarily the case. If I ever wanted to move abroad, I could potentially sell it and move on. If I decided to leave for a few months, renting it out might be an option. And, if I stayed in Malta, I’d have my own home. It felt like a win-win in my book. Property also felt like a better use of my savings than simply leaving the money sitting in my bank account earning next to nothing. It took me a while to come around to that way of thinking – mostly cause I didn’t want to. But finally, I was ready.
Of course, there were two major challenges I’d have to deal with:
- Money: While I’d always been saving throughout my time as a BST, I now had to ramp up the amount I was putting aside. Not only would I have to dish out a huge lump sum towards the purchase, but I’d also have to start factoring in the cost of living – something my mother had always largely taken care of for me. On top of that, a substantial chunk of my salary would eventually go towards the loan, meaning I worried I’d have to cut back on social activities and, worst of all, travelling. That said, I hoped my organisational skills would come in handy and help me keep doing most of the things I loved.
- Time: While living in Malta, I’d also been thoroughly spoilt by my mother, who did most of the cooking, cleaning and laundry. I’d lived on my own before and managed perfectly well, but I knew a permanent move was gonna be different. Doing all of that myself would mean having way less time for everything else. On top of that, I’d still have to study and work, with hiking, diving, kayaking, workouts and everything in between competing for whatever time remained. That was probably where my biggest fear lay: would I be able to maintain the balance I’d spent the previous few years nurturing?
Before moving on with anything, I had to sort out my crap. I read about the 50/30/20 rule, a budgeting rule of thumb that suggests putting roughly 50% of your take-home income towards needs, 30% towards wants and 20% towards savings. Before then, around 50% of my money went towards travelling, 30% to savings and 20% to wants. That was it. Now I had to recalibrate everything. Wanting to keep some semblance of my previously debt-free life, I came up with my own version instead: 40% for needs, 20% for savings, 20% for wants and 20% for travelling.
Long gone were the days when I’d spend €10,000 on a single trip without thinking twice about it. Instead, I’d have to revert to my original style of travelling – staying in hostels, taking public transport, doing self-guided activities… I’d have to leave the bougie backpacking behind for the time being, which seemed like a more than fair compromise.
The Hunt Begins
Having finally outgrown most of those fears and sorted out my finances, I took the first step. I recruited the help of friends and colleagues alike, knowing next to nothing about what it actually took to buy a place.
First up, I scheduled a meeting with my bank to get an idea of how much I could borrow. Having compiled a list of payslips and other documents, I was introduced to my banker – sounds so adult, right? – who made the necessary calculations. It turned out I could borrow way more than I’d expected. Taking the full amount, though, would’ve meant paying an exorbitant amount of interest and leaving myself feeling trapped. Plus, I wasn’t looking for anything grand. At first, all I could picture for myself was a one-bedroom apartment with a fully functioning kitchen and bathroom.
Then came the actual home hunt. I scheduled multiple viewings all over Malta. Some places had already been built and were ready to move into. Others were still in shell form. Others were little more than plots of land. I met estate agents and developers from all over, trying to figure out what suited me best. For starters, I wanted somewhere quiet – ideally close to the sea. Those places, however, turned out to be way too expensive for me to justify the cost.
This went on for about a month – a relatively short search compared to other people I knew who’d spent years tracking down their perfect abode. For me, though, this apartment was gonna be somewhere I moved into, not necessarily my forever place, as some would call it. That said, I did fall into what felt like the classic Maltese trap of gradually looking for something much bigger than I had initially envisioned. It started with wanting a second bedroom for storage, given my huge kayak, paddleboard, bike and diving gear. Then I was told it would make more sense to get a three-bedroom apartment for the resale value. And just like that, my budget started creeping upwards.
And on went the search. It was a few more weeks of driving around the island, learning new terminology and realising just how ignorant I was about anything to do with construction and property. I guess one of the reasons I wanted to buy a place was precisely to become a bit more home-savvy – turning it into what my cheesy friend Momma Bear called a “passion project”. Given that I’d taken a step back from travelling and that winter in Malta had been particularly gruelling – thanks, Storm Harry! – I didn’t have much else occupying my free time, so I threw myself into it.
I kept looking until I found somewhere that felt just right. And lo and behold, somehow, unexpectedly, I found one that ticked all the boxes. Still in shell form, it was a first-floor, three-bedroom apartment overlooking a quiet garden in the middle of a rural town not too far from where I lived. Better yet, it was relatively cheap, all things considered. The moment I stepped into the bright, open space, I could picture myself living there.
PART II
A Last-Minute Surprise
From there onwards, it became a whirlwind of bureaucracy – a cascade of tasks that seemed never-ending. That said, my agent promised he’d be there for me every step of the way – thus ensuring his hefty commission.
First up, I got an architect involved to inspect the place and make sure everything was in order. Luckily, one of my best friends and colleagues had a sister who happened to be an excellent architect. Apart from doing a spectacular job, she also didn’t charge me a single penny – God bless her. With everything appearing to be above board, I agreed with my agent and the developer on a date for the Promise of Sale. This was the preliminary agreement setting out the terms under which the developer would sell the property and I would buy it, subject to the conditions we agreed upon. To do that, I also needed a notary – one recommended to me by yet another friend.
Just when I thought everything was falling into place, my agent called to tell me the developer wanted to increase the purchase price because another buyer was allegedly interested. Now, I might have been completely ignorant when it came to property, but I was immediately suspicious. To me, it felt like a classic trope designed to squeeze out a few more thousand euros at the last minute. I figured I had two options: either call their bluff and walk away or comply like a goodie-goodie. Quite uncharacteristically of me, I went with the latter. I liked the place, and I didn’t wanna risk losing it over a few thousand euros.
That said, I didn’t let it slide easily. I sent a long message to my agent and had him forward it to the developer, explaining that while it might have been only a few thousand euros to them, it made a huge difference to me as someone just starting out. I added that I had agreed to a certain amount knowing I could afford it and that I’d already engaged an architect and notary in good faith. Not to mention, the Promise of Sale was scheduled within days, so the short-notice increase felt unreasonable. Finally, I made it clear that if there were any more unexpected changes, I wouldn’t proceed.
Of course, I knew full well my little rant might mean nothing to money-hungry business types. But at least I made my voice heard. More importantly, they reduced the increase by half. So I guess catharsis wasn’t the only thing I got out of it.
Signing on the Dotted Line
A few days later, I found myself sitting in an office with my agent, the developer and the notary. It was right before my night shift, so all I wanted was to sign the thing and go home to sleep. Instead, they made small talk and complimented my work as an emergency doctor – conveniently ignoring the thousands of euros they had practically ripped off from me a week earlier.
Then we got to the actual Promise of Sale. The notary went through the eleven-page document line by line, highlighting the things I needed to be careful about – plumbing and electrical layouts, floor-to-ceiling height, access to utility shafts and the various conditions attached to the agreement. I was also warned to keep a close eye on the works as construction progressed, particularly since this was still a property in shell form.
Once everyone agreed that everything was in order, we signed. We all shook hands and my agent congratulated me – something I felt was slightly uncalled for. No one had ever congratulated me for booking tickets to Antarctica, and that, to me, felt like a much grander achievement. Plus, committing tens of thousands of euros to buying a property didn’t feel particularly celebratory. But I guess there was one thing to consider. I certainly felt fully committed now.
More Hurdles
And with that, there was one major bureaucratic hoop left: getting the bank loan finalised. I met my banker – never fails to sound so grown-up – and we went over everything.
The monthly repayments, including interest, turned out to be more than manageable, allowing me to maintain much of my lifestyle. That, to me, was the most important thing. That isn’t to say I wasn’t riddled with doubts throughout the whole ordeal. Somehow, it felt like I’d signed a deal with the devil and compromised my freedom. I figured that was probably a normal feeling when taking on that much debt – one that would probably be assuaged by the whole moving in part. Worst case, I kept telling myself, I could always sell the place later.
Turns out, I had bigger problems. A few weeks later, my banker told me there was a garnishee order registered against my name which would hold up the loan process. To anyone who knows nothing about law – myself included – a garnishee order is essentially a court order that tells a third party (in this case a bank) to take money from a debtor (me) and give it directly to a creditor to pay off an unpaid debt. Needless to say, this was news to me as I never had any court proceedings against me – or at least none that I knew about.
Turns out, this particular order dated back to 2004, back when I was at the ripe and tender age of nine years old. Apart from never having been informed about it, I feel like I would’ve been aware of any major crimes I would’ve committed. Also, I would’ve also realised had they frozen my assets at that age – especially given that my only assets at the time were my precious Pokémon cards. Trust me, I wouldn’t have let anyone close to them (ask my cousin whom I had bitten over my Espeon Ex).
When I got to know about it, I thought it was simply absurd. Luckily, my banker did too. It was probably a clerical mistake by the courts. And this mistake? Let’s just say it was now up to me to get it sorted. Nearly two decades later, I now had to hire a lawyer out of my own pocket to clear it. And, apparently, this would take ages given how old the order was. I spoke to my banker again, and she told me they could make an exception given that the order appeared to relate to someone else entirely. Thankfully, the loan was eventually approved. So, I guess, all’s well that ends well.
Making it Mine
With construction completion estimated for the end of the year, the whole thing then became a waiting game.
In the meantime, I treated the apartment as my passion project and focused on the interior design. I used 3D rendering apps to create basic layouts for each room and then, with the help of AI, generated images of how I wanted the different spaces to look. It was equal parts frustrating and exciting, not gonna lie. But eventually, I managed to come up with something that wouldn’t simply be somewhere I lived, but somewhere that actually felt like my space. God, I couldn’t wait to see my study and yoga room!
The next step would be to turn it into reality. I’d have to start visiting shops and choose tiles, furniture and appliances. I knew that was gonna be another headache in itself – but hey, one step at a time. And despite all the stress, I kinda looked forward to it.