Okay.  I’ve always known that Justin and I currently live in the type of area that many people around the U.S. would refer to as “the boonies.”  Or maybe the suburbs of the boonies.

But I didn’t fully come to grips with that fact until yesterday, when I was working my new job.

See, the city of Fayetteville is not that terrible.  It has all of the basic amenities, a very small mall, a slurry of chain restaurants and fast food joints, and more and more “urban-chic,” privately owned cafés, coffee houses, restaurants, and specialty shops are cropping up here and there.  Thanks to the existence of multicultural Fort Bragg and a high Hispanic population, we can be treated to all kinds of hole-in-the-wall culinary delights, if we know where to look.

The non-sketchy half of downtown Fayetteville is cleaning up quite nicely.

Much of the time, however, I prefer to visit friends in nearby Raleigh/Durham/Chapel Hill, or Pinehurst/Aberdeen/Southern Pines, just to feel like part of a non-transient community for small fractions of time.  And sometimes we visit the beach.

The problem is that military communities, in general, can become run-down relatively quickly if the city doesn’t stay on top of things, because if people don’t consider a place a long-term home, they don’t tend to care about long-term aesthetics.  Abundant pawn shops, strip clubs and tattoo parlors cater to a young soldier’s basic needs, but it takes a bit longer for a wine café or an independent book store to attract a steady customer base.

So.  I would consider this a transitional period for this area.

Then, there are the outskirts.  The outskirts are a little… sketchier.

My new job as a real estate assistant involves a lot of running around, primarily stuffing the tracker full of lock boxes and corrugated cardboard signs, then fiddling with keys and combination codes and attempting to use my high-heeled sandals to stamp signs into the ground in 100+ degree heat while wearing a pencil skirt.

It ain’t pretty.

Add to that the fact that  yesterday I was so middle-of-nowhere lost, that directly in front of me lay a beautiful field of goldeny wheat looking stuff, but I was too afraid of the ominous meaning in the shotgun pellet-riddled sign I’d just passed to stop and take a picture for you.  Or maybe it was the lease we’d just signed with a guy who threatened to shoot us if we tried to get on his property without permission.  Or maybe it’s the eviction stories I’ve been hearing around the office.  Empty houses.  Strangers’ secrets.

Yeah… maybe I’ll get that picture for you next time.

Those of you who are scared of the city and its petty thefts and crowd anonymity should come take a look at the country where everyone has a gun and no one can hear you scream.

Who would’ve thought working in real estate could be such a scary job?

I’m curious about you readers — are you city or country dwellers?  Which do you prefer?  More importantly, if you’ve ever worked in real estate, just how do you not end up looking all haggard, sweaty and bedraggled at the end of the day?

P.S.  We’re doing something exciting this weekend and I’ll be back to tell you all about it next week.

P.P.S.  I finished my desk and will be back to show you pictures of it next week.

P.P.P.S.  I need my coffee.  There really was no point in telling you that, except that I wanted another post-script.

Thank you for your time.