When we bought the house here in Paradise Cove, we learned a whole new language. Like the fact this isn't really a house at all, or even a trailer. It's a coach, a Meteor, to be precise, circa 1973. Snazzy at the time, eclipsed now by the new construction here in the Cove. I like to think of it as a classic.

Because it rolled in here and, in theory, can roll back out someday, I pay an annual registration fee. Up until recently, I even had to display that registration sticker on the outside of my house - I mean coach - like on a license plate.

That's all changed. The mobile home industry has become gentrified. These new places come with cathedral ceilings and hardwood floors, travertine showers and Jacuzzi tubs, marble countertops and stainless appliances, islands and skylights and clerestories. They've got all the bells and whistles of a prime time HGTV shelter porn series, so much so, they're not even called coaches any more. Pay enough and you can call it a house.

Here's the newest addition to Paradise Cove, rolling slowly up the hill. According to unspoken (but vigorously observed) local custom, the instant the two halves of this place are joined together, we'll find an unlocked door and take a look. Kick the tires. Peek under the hood. Work up a nice little case of coach envy.