One particularly memorable viewing in the very posh Quinta da Marinha featured what appeared to be a four-month-old roast chicken still quietly decomposing in the oven like some sort of archaeological discovery.
The bedrooms came complete with pee-stained mattresses and the rental contract was a twelve-page dystopian novella that essentially said: "Sign here to accept responsibility for all the damage that already exists."
The landlord didn't seem remotely concerned about the chicken. The estate agent wasn't particularly concerned either.
In fairness, responses from agents often arrive at roughly the same speed as Portuguese bureaucracy and occasionally slower than the house's plumbing. Real estate here sometimes feels less like a profession and more like a hobby people pursue between long lunches.
"The house itself was lovely. The poultry situation less so."
Another favourite was a charming house — by which I mean an aggressively overpriced shoebox — complete with a shared driveway and a landlord who seemed to have an endless supply of fully grown children.
Every wealthy Portuguese family appears to have at least ten daughters waiting patiently in the wings to move into any available property should a tenant hesitate for even a moment.
The negotiations dragged on for six weeks. The contract collapsed four separate times. Just as we finally thought we were making progress and saw a tiny glimmer of hope, the roof actually caved in.
Not metaphorically. Literally. At that point even I started wondering whether Portugal was trying to tell us something.
Next time I'll share a few more of our unforgettable property adventures, including houses with mystery smells, creative pricing strategies and some truly impressive attempts to disguise serious problems as charming features.
— Kasia
Kasia Plattner is a writer, relocator and professional starter-over. Author of The Art of Making Life More Complicated.