Moving from a tiny Swiss apartment to an American architectural masterpiece is not for the fainthearted In one of those matrimonial negotiations familiar to no one except strange expatriates such as myself, my husband Brian agreed that if we went through with it, I would get the Frank Lloyd Wright.
Brian and I were considering divorcing, you see. Not from each other, but from a country I had grown almost as close to as my own husband. It was a love triangle: me, Brian, Switzerland.
But after living in Switzerland for almost a decade, Brian wanted to move home. Move home" But Baden, Switzerland, was home. Home was a small, two-bedroom apartment below a larger-than-life 11th-century castle. Home was a view of a medieval clock tower that dinged every 15 minutes, 24/7. Home was not always understanding everything my 80-year-old Swiss neighbor said but keeping our communal laundry room as lint-free as she insisted. Switzerland was home. I hadn?t really considered redefining the concept again. One move across the Atlantic had been dramatic enough. But no matter how much we loved Switzerland, we couldn?t do anything about the influence our nationality had on what our definition of home should be: We were Americans, and after a decade of living and working among everyone but Americans, my husband thought a place that spoke English might be kind of novel. Exciting, even. And we missed our Chicago-based family.
Which brings me to Frank Lloyd Wright. He was for sale. Two o...