We bought a house!

If you’ve been following our house hunting journey, you’ll recall that we’ve explored a wide range of homes, including one requiring a goat for roof maintenance, one atop a grocery store, and several that require burning excrement. We narrowed it down to four contenders, most notably one that likely has ghosts and one affectionately called “The Fraud One.”

In the end, we chose the sensible option: a newly renovated condo on a quiet street about two blocks from Annalise’s future elementary school. It’s the one we previously referred to as “Communist,” partly because its cheerful utilitarian architecture is reminiscent of postwar Europe, and partly because its four units are governed by a co-op board that makes communal decisions.

While shopping, we had to navigate different norms on what is, and is not, necessarily provided by the seller. For example, in the United States, you might expect to install your own window treatments. That is also true here, but we were surprised to discover that in a city only 350 miles below the Arctic Circle, it is not necessary for the house to have a mechanism for heat. The home is well insulated and has underfloor heating in some rooms, but before moving in we will need an electrician to install radiators throughout. Spare a thought for the seller who had to answer a lot of dumb Norwegian home construction questions before we put in a bid (“I think you’re saying that these rooms have no heat. That cannot be right. Can you confirm I’m understanding that correctly?”).

While looking at houses, we had to secure a mortgage. The first bank we approached ghosted us after seeing our American tax return. Norwegian taxes are comparatively straightforward, and presumably no one at the bank wanted to spend the afternoon learning about the standard deduction or the difference between a traditional and Roth IRA. Honestly, that’s fair. We were lucky to find a mortgage lender at a small local bank accustomed to working with foreigners who was happy to give us a mortgage; they did this not by being knowledgeable about American finances, but rather by just choosing to trust that we had some money in another country.

Norway does not use American-style credit scores. Instead, banks apply a series of lending limits, and borrowers qualify for the highest amount that satisfies all of them. For most mortgages, total debt generally cannot exceed five times annual income, and buyers must ordinarily put at least 10 percent down. Existing debts count against the total. The bank then subtracts the projected mortgage payment from monthly income to ensure the borrower has enough left for a “reasonable standard of living.”

That standard is based on a budget developed by Consumption Research Norway and is intended to represent “a standard baseline for full participation in Norwegian society,” rather than mere subsistence. It accounts for things like food costs based on the age and sex of each family member. For example, the model assumes that a 15-year-old boy requires 3,000 calories a day, while a 42-year-old woman like me requires only 2,150. The budget also accounts for leisure activities, because full participation in Norwegian society absolutely requires the purchase of skis, and “having to buy a house” is not a good enough reason to forgo that.

Presumably because they don’t track credit and are unenthusiastic about locking themselves into an unchanging 30 year relationship, Norwegian banks charge a premium for fixed-rate mortgages and variable rates are the norm. To our American perspective, nothing says “responsible homeownership” quite like not knowing what it will cost next year.

The mechanics of buying a house are far less formal than in the US. The first indication is that all homes are sold on the Norwegian equivalent of Facebook Marketplace, called FINN.no. On FINN, we have therefore bought a secondhand chair, some hand-knitted Christmas hats, waterproof pants for Annalise, and a house.

As I write this, the top four advertisements on FINN are for bike pedals, a set of mismatched freezers, farm equipment, and various parts for a VW Beetle.

Unlike in the US, it’s highly uncommon for buyers to have an agent, so customers are on their own to navigate the market. The usual way to see a home is through an open house, although sellers’ agents will usually (although not always) give you a private showing if you have a good reason for requesting it. You register in advance for the open house, which also subscribes you to be notified of any bids, which are made publicly and transparently. Offers are submitted directly through FINN, meaning that the purchase of a home is only a few clicks away from a used carburetor.

One genuinely nice feature of the Norwegian system is that sellers are required to obtain a home inspection, which is posted publicly on FINN with the listing. Norwegians seem much more willing than Americans to list homes in catastrophically bad condition, so reading it closely is important. With the help of Gemini, we translated the reports and eliminated properties like the one below, which needed 18 separate urgent repairs. We encountered a surprising number of homes in this condition.

A charming opportunity for someone with no fear of mold.

A bid consists of an amount of money, a proposed closing date, a list of conditions the buyer would like the seller to meet before closing, the mortgage broker’s phone number, and an expiration time, after which the bid is no longer valid. This information is instantly broadcast via text to all interested buyers, who have until the bid’s expiration time to make a counter offer.

The public bidding process is kind of fun, provided it is happening to someone else. The expiration time can be as short as 30 minutes, meaning the seller, seller’s agent, and all other interested parties must suddenly drop everything and glue themselves to their phones until the clock runs out. The seller’s agent must confirm the buyer’s financing (in this small country, this consists solely of calling the buyer’s mortgage broker for a verbal confirmation), talk to the seller about their interest in the offer, and possibly call the prospective buyer to have informal negotiations. In the meantime, another buyer (who has suddenly stepped away from their job, called their spouse, and made an unexpected, high-pressure decision) can submit a higher offer with a new 30-minute deadline, thereby sending a new flurry of texts, and restarting the panic.

The exception is the weekend. No one will respond to an offer on the weekend, especially if the weather is good.

When we were ready to make an offer, Gavin registered it through FINN and indicated that we were bidding jointly. I then received a text asking me to reply “Ja” if I did, in fact, intend to purchase this particular house. It was a refreshingly simple process, although I have encountered more “are you sure?” checks while ordering pizza.

We politely gave the seller about 20 hours to consider our offer. During the final few hours, we stayed close to our phones so we would not miss a call. After some back-and-forth with the agent, the deadline came and went, our bid disappeared from the website, and we wondered whether we had bought a house, lost a house, or inadvertently purchased a second-hand plough.

Then the seller responded “Ja.”

And that was it. After months of studying neighborhoods, translating inspection reports, comparing mortgage rules, evaluating heating systems, and considering properties distinguished by ghosts, goats, excrement, or fraud, we had bought the sensible house. Or, at least the Communist one.

We are excited to make it ours. Please come visit!