Title Town

Closing on a property in the United States, where everyone speaks the same language, is pretty straightforward. You're at the table with the property owner, their attorney, your attorney, real estate brokers, and someone from the bank. Pleasantries are exchanged. The mood is light. In my case, as I signed my life away, each page was described to me and the bank handed over the check. Wide smiles and "congratulations" all around. A few weeks later, I received a package in the mail containing copies of my closing documents. That was it—I was a homeowner with a move-in ready property.

Closing on a property in Mexico? A little different.

For starters, there was no one from the bank because I had to pay in cash. This required a level of trust I wasn't necessarily comfortable with. I had to wire the money to the developer days in advance—something else I wasn't comfortable with. My mother sat next to me at the table, doing her best to capture the moment with her phone. A large, leather-bound book was placed in front of me, its pages written in a language I didn't understand. My attorney explained it all to me, and I had to trust her. The title would come later, I was assured. I signed, was congratulated, and left as the owner of my retirement home.

My day wasn't over quite yet.

The realtor said we had to go to the management office to drop off more money. What it was for, I didn't know. Then we had to go to the bank to pay for something else—a bank trust. In Mexico, when you purchase property within a certain distance from the ocean, you're required to have a fideicomiso, which holds the property in your name.

During all this bouncing around from here to there, my realtor and I discussed the possibility of her managing the property for me. It was something she used to do and was considering doing again on a larger scale. For the time being, she'd just do it for me. I appreciated it and accepted.

The process didn't end there.

The following day, we had to meet the realtor at her office to pick up paperwork from the lawyer's office—they're called notarios there. We arrived at her office and once again I had to present my passport (everything is so formal), then I was handed a large envelope filled with documents. There happened to be another attorney there who spoke English. He thumbed through the closing documents and noticed I didn't have a receipt showing full payment. It wasn't a big deal at the moment, but it could become one down the road.

My realtor, who is a high-energy person who can talk and talk and talk, immediately sprang into action. She called the developer's main office, and within the hour they emailed the receipt to me. I have to keep the documents, receipts, and everything else related to the purchase in a safe place with me in the United States. When doing business in the US, I can make a request or go online for a copy of my deed. In Mexico, everything is much more of a process. A long process.

You would think after paying all that money for a house—a brand new one at that—there wouldn't be much work left to do. But there's a lack of water pressure, so I need to get a water booster. And a water heater, an appropriately sized one. Little things have to be repaired before the builder's warranty expires. While we were there, we met with the carpenter who would build the closets and kitchen cabinetry. Issa lot. Thankfully, my realtor agreed to oversee all the little projects.

Let's not even get started on the furniture.

Oh, and it came without grass. So there's landscaping to be done and sprinkler systems to be installed. You really just get the house and everything else is on you.

Just when you think, "Man, I have a new home!" you can't get too excited because the work is just getting started—the personalization part. If you're unable to be there on the ground, make sure you have someone who speaks the language and someone you trust to take care of the million little things that arise.