I took a step back so I could get the full picture of the house and the property, perched on the dunes and shrouded in beach plum bushes.

It was pretty much the perfect Cape Cod house: the weathered cedar shingles, the window frames painted white, and the front door buttermilk blue. Behind it, the bay unfurled, with seagulls swooping by and cawing into the void.

I could do without the beekeeping set-up in the yard, to be sure. And the deck, what can I say? The chaises were upholstered in an unfortunate floral that I would replace with a nice nautical blue and white stripe. But that was easily fixed.

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Was I contemplating buying my dream beach house? Well, yes, but only in my mind. I was in no way in the market for a property. I was not the client of any real-estate agent.

Rather, I was just doing what I always do when I travel: indulging in a little imaginary house shopping.

House-Hunting on Vacation, and Only in My Head

No matter where I am, whether a daytrip an hour or two from home or a long-haul flight away, I can’t help but imagine myself living in a new place. And that means sizing up the real estate and spending more time than I’d like to admit gazing at properties from afar and daydreaming about what it would be like to live there.

For me, this is a true joy of travel; to envision a life not lived. What if I did move to a Greek island? Could I be content in that tiny white-washed cottage next to that tiny white-washed church? Would I be happy retiring to such a lonely place? (Of course not. But why not indulge myself on this? And, yes, I do indeed watch House Hunters International to get a vicarious fix of this kind of real-estate fantasyland.)

And in Paris, what would it be like to push through those grand wooden double doors at street level, making their enchanting click-click as I did so, and then scale the steps to a garret apartment tucked under a zinc roof? Would I do my grocery shopping at the market around the corner, putting my purchases in one of those traditional French cotton-mesh bags?

What would it be like to scale the steps to a garret apartment tucked under a zinc roof in Paris? Would I carry my groceries in one of those traditional French cotton-mesh bags?

Closer to home, when we drive to visit a friend whose family owns a condo by the beach, I toy with the idea of having a cozy little place of my own with a view of the Atlantic. Maybe that’s the way to go: smaller, more affordable, low-maintenance. I’m not so young anymore. Who needs to worry about renovations at this stage? I do a quick online search to size up the options, checking prices and real-estate taxes.

California Dreaming

When in California, en route to explore Topanga State Park, I scan for local magazines, stacked at cafes, that are packed with appetizing real-estate ads. I can’t help but read their descriptions. “Magical mountain chalets” call to me, as does a “mid-century ranch, awaiting restoration.”

I could become a lady of the canyon, could I not? I could wear a block-printed caftan, a mystical pendant on a leather thong, and have Joni Mitchell on heavy Spotify repeat. I’d drink herbal teas and discover the possibilities of chickpeas and quinoa.

In West Hollywood, I look at the low-rise apartment buildings, covered in a cascade of jacaranda, and wonder what I’d do with my micro-terrace if I moved in there. Would I want a comfy wicker chair, where I could sit and read? Or a little table and chairs so I could sip coffee there and Wordle the morning away?

These are the roads not taken, and eyeballing real estate while out of town gives me a voyage of a different kind. An expat me. A West Coast me. A journey into who I could have been, even who I might be, if I didn’t stay rooted in the status quo.

Would I, Should I, Could I Move?

Some travelers, though, go a good bit further than just studying ads and admiring properties from afar. NextTribe Founder Jeannie Ralston recalls being so enchanted with the Dordogne region of France, that she and her ex actually went around with a realtor and looked at places. “It was so fun,” she recalls. “We got to meet locals and see their homes from the inside. We truly were considering it, but after we got home we realized it wouldn’t work with our jobs and our sons who were just starting their grown-up lives.”

My Boston-based friend Cheryl, an attorney, became enamored with Sarasota, Florida, on a visit during a bleak New England winter. So much so that she appeared at a real-estate agent’s office to talk options. She had fallen in love with the town’s Bayfront Park, the Ringling Museum of Art, and regal banyan trees, standing like sentries.

I already had my morning walks to the beach all planned out. I could see myself sitting in the shade of a palm tree, drinking green juice.

“I already had my morning walks to the beach all planned out,” she says with a wistful laugh. “I could see myself sitting and reading in the shade of a palm tree and becoming the type of woman who drinks green juice instead of guzzles coffee while frantically replaying to emails…If only!” Then reality reappeared, and she realized that with a thriving practice, college-age child, and elderly father back in Massachusetts, the dream would have to be deferred.

When Travelers Take the Real-Estate Plunge

“If only” doesn’t apply to everyone, however. Some people wind up purchasing a property while traveling. Ralston, for one, did buy a house when visiting the ever-charming Mexican town of San Miguel de Allende. “That’s how the family ended up moving there years ago,” Ralston says. “I told my mother upon returning home, ‘We bought a very big souvenir on our trip. So big that we can’t bring it home. We have to return to Mexico to take care of it.’”

We bought a house when traveling in Mexico. I told my mother, ‘We bought a very big souvenir on our trip. So big that we can’t bring it home.’

In that way, travel can do more than trigger real-estate lust. It can lead to an entirely new adventure, a U-turn in the road of life. Talk about living the dream!