Let’s be honest for a second. You and I are probably not in the market for a house that costs more than the GDP of a small island nation. But that doesn’t mean we can’t take a virtual stroll through the most expensive homes in America currently for sale. It’s a bit like window-shopping at a jewelry store where you need a loan just to look at the price tag.

We’ve all had that moment. You’re scrolling through Zillow and accidentally filter by “Price: Highest First.” Suddenly, you’re staring at a mansion that has its own zip code. Your mouth drops open, and you whisper, “Where do these people buy their groceries?”

Let’s get one thing straight: these aren’t houses. They’re compounds, compounds, and more compounds. We’re talking about properties that come with their own security details, private helipads, and fountains that probably use Evian water. You don’t just buy a house; you buy a small universe where you never have to see a neighbor’s laundry on a line.

The One Where You Need a Map to Find the Kitchen

Take the $295 million mega-mansion in Bel Air, California. It’s called “The One,” which is not a very humble name. Imagine telling your friend, “Oh, I live in The One.” They’d probably think you were talking about a Netflix show. But no, this place has 21 bedrooms and 42 bathrooms. I don’t have 42 friends, let alone bathrooms for them to use.

You’d need a full-time staff just to keep the toilets stocked with toilet paper. Can you imagine the toilet paper budget? It’s probably more than your annual salary. And the master closet is bigger than my entire apartment. I bet you could get lost in there and not find your way out until dinner.

Then there’s Fleur de Lys in Holmby Hills, California, asking for about $120 million. This one has a 15,000-square-foot underground garage. That’s not a garage; that’s a parking lot for an airport. You could store your 30 cars down there, plus a few spare bicycles you forgot you owned. The house itself is a replica of the Palace of Versailles. No big deal.

What Do You Even Do With That Space?

I think about what I do in my living room. I watch Schitt’s Creek reruns and eat cereal out of a box. In these homes, the living room is the size of a football field. You could host a small parade in there. You’d need a hidden microphone system just to hear someone say “Pass the remote.”

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And the pools. Oh, the pools. They aren’t just rectangular holes filled with water. They’re infinity pools that look like they drop off into the ocean. I once had a pool in my backyard. It was an inflatable kiddie pool, and it had a leak. That’s about as close to infinity as I got.

You’ll also find private movie theaters that are nicer than your local multiplex. I’m talking leather recliners, popcorn machines, and probably a butler who hands you a glass of champagne. My idea of a home theater is watching Netflix on a laptop in bed while balancing a bowl of microwave popcorn on my stomach.

The Hidden Costs That Would Make You Cry

Here’s the kicker: buying the house is just the start. The property taxes alone would fund a small town. For a $150 million home, you’re looking at a tax bill of about $1.5 million every single year. That’s not a tax; that’s a whole second mortgage. You’d have to be actively printing money in your basement to afford the upkeep.

Then there’s the HOA fee. Yes, even at this level, there’s an HOA. Can you imagine the notes? “Hello Residents, please ensure your private helicopter is parked in the designated spot. Also, the gardeners have reported that the 500-year-old bonsai tree near the entrance is looking a bit wilted. Please water it with imported rain water.”

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And let’s not forget the utilities. The electric bill for a house with 24-hour lighting on a 10-acre property? You could probably power a small European country. My last electric bill was $78, and I complained about the AC. These people probably have a staff accountant whose only job is to pay the electricity bill.

Why We Can’t Look Away

But here’s the thing: we love this stuff. We might never own a house with its own vineyard or a bowling alley in the basement, but we can dream. It’s like the Super Bowl of real estate. You watch the game even if your team isn’t playing. You look at the $200 million listings even if your bank account has a negative balance.

Every time I see one, I nod as if I understand the value. “Ah, yes, Italian marble and hand-carved mahogany—I have that in my kitchen, too.” It’s a little white lie we tell ourselves while scrolling. No, I don’t. I have laminate countertops and a coffee table from IKEA that I’ve assembled twice because it collapsed.

So go ahead and browse. Laugh at the absurdity of a home that has a separate wing for “guests you don’t like.” Imagine the awkward moment when you drop a cookie crumb on the 24-karat gold-plated floor. Remember, these homes are for sale, but they’re not for us. And that’s perfectly fine. Our leaky inflatable pool and our trusty TV remote are waiting for us at home.

And honestly? The remote is probably a lot easier to find in a 900-square-foot apartment than in a 45,000-square-foot estate. Silver linings, people. Silver linings.