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If you’re like me, you dream of owning a place abroad. I’m envious every time I read about David Sedaris or Ina Garten spending part of their year in France; George Clooney lounging in Lake Como; Lily Collins in Copenhagen, where I imagine she and her husband assemble overly complicated Lego sets into the evening winter hours.
But there are a lot of impracticalities to owning abroad, especially if you’re not one of the Sexiest Men Alive: The money. The upkeep. And how often are you really going to get there?
“Number one: Owning a property overseas is a lot of responsibility,” Phil Ellet, a “99 percent retired” tech executive from Texas told me. He and his wife, a real estate agent, have owned vacation homes in the United States and, over the last few years, have considered purchasing a place in Paris. “We’d have to renovate, and Parisian rules and regulations are not easy.”
Instead, they bought a fractional ownership into August Collections, which allows them access to five different vacation homes. Phil and his wife went the city route, so using a point system, they’re allowed to spend time in five different two-bedroom apartments in five different cities: Cannes, Barcelona, London, Rome and Paris.
Phil said he and his wife like the idea of going back to the same residences. “It’s comforting to return to a place you know,” he said.
August co-ownerships are available at different levels—pied à terre, which Phil and his wife co-own; signature collection, premium, and prime, the company’s most luxurious home tier. One premium home collection includes access to a chalet in the French Alps; a townhouse in Mallorca; a villa in the South of France; a farmhouse in Tuscany, and a four-bedroom cottage with a garden in the Cotswolds.
On a recent trip to London, for a few days, I lived the life of an August Collections owner. A little bit like Cameron Diaz in The Holiday, I spent three nights at a cozy three-bedroom Signature Collection property in the Cotswolds. Though the Cotswolds can be remote British countryside, this particular property was well-located, especially because I didn’t have the use of a car. It was right across the street from a pub, which during the week even had a pizza truck—a blessing for someone like me who doesn’t cook.
The property was more than a hotel, though it had all the amenities of one (except a regular cleaner, which can be arranged). There was firewood if I was functionally able to start a fire; pots, pans and plates and silverware in the kitchen, and, of course, linens and towels. Based on a nominal grocery list, Tessa, the property manager, had stocked the fridge and the cupboard with some necessities including oat milk, iced coffee, croissants and dry pasta, which my friend cooked when we decided we didn’t feel like venturing out.
That said: the Cotswolds isn’t exactly in the middle of nowhere. Getting an Uber was relatively easy (about a 15-20 minute wait on either end). That enabled me to explore Daylesford Farm, a mecca best described as Disneyland as designed by Nancy Meyers, where I washed down a farm-fresh lunch with local Kombucha; brought home lots of prepared food, and contemplated buying yet another tote bag I didn’t need.
Staying in a home gave me space and the air to do things I wouldn’t necessarily do if I was cooped up in a hotel room. I did a jigsaw puzzle and listened to an audiobook or two. I watched a true crime documentary and a few episodes of Dept. Q on Netflix, something I haven’t done uninterrupted in ages. And I even came up with an idea for a cozy mystery series: What if a neurotic New Yorker like me suddenly found himself marooned in the Cotswolds and had to solve crimes?
Now I just have to buy a share in an August Collections to go back and write it.