Nobody lives in Tiburon

In the early seventies, while we lived in Boston, my husband was offered a job in San Francisco and we decided to move there. Some friends who’d lived in the Bay Area, suggested place to live. They had a map of northern California and explained that Marin County north of the Golden Gate Bridge was lovely.

On the map, I tapped on a peninsular. “What about this?” I said.

“That’s Tiburon! Nobody lives in Tiburon,” Anne repeated.

“Why not?” I asked.

“There is nothing nice there. It’s a hill with wild grass. You must look in Ross, lovely trees, or Hillsborough, elegant properties,” they nodded in unison.

Weeks later we drove across country with our two children. A local southern Marin real estate agent showed us Ross. The only affordable house had a backyard made of concrete. While my husband looked through the rooms, I walked in circles on the concrete and sobbed.

The real estate agent suggested Belvedere, although it was pricey. We drove there and immediately realized that this beautiful island was unaffordable for a family scraping by on an academic salary.

“What about Tiburon?” I asked. I hadn’t stopped thinking about it. The idea of living on land with water on three sides entranced me.

She looked dubious and shook her head while checking her listing book. “Nothing here. Wait a moment, there is a house for sale. The right size, the right price and it has a view of the bay.”

We bought that house at the end of Acela Drive in Tiburon. On two sides rolling hills of long grass stretched around us, and in front we gazed out at the bay and green hills of Sausalito and Mill Valley. Development had begun north of us. Three years later, we moved higher up the mountain, and we, who are still nobodies, still live here.