t was about 8 years ago when our plane touch down at the Rome International Airport. Italy is one of the European countries that I had never visited before. Even though Joelle is from France, she had never visited the country either. For

both of us, this trip would be an adventure.

Somewhere in the middle of Tuscany was our final destination. Our friends, who had ventured ahead of us, rented a palazzo (villa) in a podunk town called Monterchi. There we will stay for a week, soaking up as much countryside, pasta and wine as we can. For now, our goal is to find our friends.

Now that we are in Rome, the first thing we have to do is get out of Rome. From within the airport, the first step is to find the Leonardo Express. The 40 foot tall painting of Leonardo Da Vinci, his finger pointing, showed us the way.

The Leonardo Express felt like the monorail at Disneyland. Very clean. The seats were immaculate. With it being midday, I’m really starting to feel the heat. And that air conditioning feels super nice. I thank my lucky stars we have carry-on luggage only.

Our final stop was a nightmare. Welcome to Termini. The central hub of all train stations in Rome. We navigate through this sea of people, each fighting to get to wherever they are headed.

After fiddling around with this ATM looking machines, it spits out two tickets to Arezzo. Arezzo is the closest train stop to our final destination which is Monterchi.

One thing I’m acutely aware of is that the further from Rome we go, the less people would speak English. My Italian vocabulary contains a handful of words: spaghetti, pasta, lasagna, Chef Boyardee and Buon Giorno.

I’m also aware that most of the people we deal with are government employees. They have to deal with mountains of tourists every single day. After traveling around Europe, I learned that they’ll do the absolute minimum just to get us out of their face. Basically, we’re on our own. Nobody cares. Nobody will bend over backwards to help.

Just about the time we settle into our train seats, our friends are probably packing up to leave Florence. Their destination is the palazzo. I am sure the 10 to 12 bottles of really good wine from the night before are not slowing them down. At all.

A few hours later, our train stops in Arezzo. Standing on the platform, I look around. There are only a few roads. Next to us is a bus stop. Other than that, all I see are trees. If there’s a town here, I don’t see it. A soft warm breeze envelopes me. A nap underneath one of those trees sounds good about now. Or a really hot shower.

I spot a blue and white sign with the word “Lavazza” written on it. Is “Lavazza” Italian for “Giver of life”? Joelle says it’s a brand of coffee. Same thing. To jump start our jet-lagged brains, we order a few espresso’s. The weather is gorgeous.The sun is shining in all its glory. A few clouds are sitting on the horizon. We grab a table outside. The warm Tuscan sun massages my skin.

The next part of the plan is to call Steve. Steve is piloting the car, currently carting the rest of my friends in this direction. I’m sure the reservations at the palazzo are in his name. Before leaving Los Angeles, Steve tells me to call him when we arrived in Arezzo. He’ll come and get us.

I turn on my cell phone. AT&T threatens to charge me something obnoxious per minute. I let my fingers do the walking. My call goes directly to voicemail. Why am I not surprised.

Every group has this one person who enjoys stirring the pot. In our group, that’s Steve. Injecting drama is what he does. There is no malicious intent in the drama that he injects. It's more of a humorous curiosity about watching how people react. Of course any complaints and Steve would tell you to use that 6 inches between your ears for something other than watching TV.

AT&T charges me $12 for the voicemail. I look at my wife. Even though she looks great, I know she’s feeling every minute of that 9-hour jetlag. Just as I am.

Now comes the part I dread. I tell her we have two choices. We can either wait here at the bus stop. Keep our fingers crossed that Steve eventually picks us up. Or we buy some bus tickets, brave the Italian countryside and see if we can get to the palazzo on our own.

Lost in Italy

Cliff’s Noteswith Cliff Duvernois APRIL 2017

Author

Cliff Duvernois

CLIFFDUVERNOIS.COM 1

I

Joelle gives me a flat look. “We’re talking about Steve here.” Point taken.

We walk into the ticket center for the bus station. It is pretty spartan. Nothing adorns the walls. No maps, no bus schedules, not even any tourist fliers. Behind the counter is this Italian guy, wearing a light blue shirt. “Buon Giorno!” he belts out.

Getting into the spirit of things, I reply “Buon Giorno!” And that’s it. That’s all the Italian I have. How am I going to ask him for two tickets to Monterchi? Wait a second. I unzip my carry-on. Buried underneath my underoos and socks is a map I printed out a map with our final destination on it. Found it!

I flatten out the crumpled map and give it to the man. He studies the map for a minute through these coke-bottle glasses. He reaches under the countertop and slides two square pieces of blue construction paper across the counter. Maybe 1 inch on each side. They aren’t even perfect squares. Something like a child would cut with scissors. No numbers. No words. Just blue paper. What is this? Our bus tickets?

The man says something else. What did he say? Joelle and I look at each other, shaking our heads. Then the man holds up 4 fingers. Does that mean 4 Euros?

Joelle goes into her purse and I start digging in my pockets. I managed to find a couple of euros and a small pile of lint. We slide 4 Euros across the counter top. The man dumps the Euros into a bucket, waving us out the door. But where do we go? Which bus do we take? I don’t even see any buses.

A hail of Italians words spray from the man’s mouth. He continues to wave us out the door, finally pointing at some spot on the other side of the parking lot. Joelle grabs her stuff and walks out the door. I follow suit, clutching the blue ‘tickets’ in my hand.

At one point, Joelle stops. There’s nothing. No building. No benches. Just a round blue sign with a red circle on it. And there we stand. I turn back towards the building, confused. The door we just exited is now closed. Someone’s done helping us.

In grade school, I rode those goofy yellow buses every single day for years. And do you know where those buses go when they retired? Italy. The only difference is they paint them burgundy.

Every so often, a burgundy bus pulls up to the blue sign. No signs. No numbers. No writing. With each bus driver, we hold up our blue “tickets” and I say “Monterchi”. Each time, the driver speaks in Italian for 2 or 3 minutes while waving his hands. What is he saying?

We play this game of “What the heck did he say?” for another 15 or 20 minutes. Finally, one bus driver nods his head at the sight of our blue tickets. Finally! We grab our suitcases and climb aboard.

Just like in grade school, there’s nowhere to store luggage. No racks. No compartments under the bus. I sit my carry-on bag in the seat next to me. Joelle does the same, opposite of me.

Probably 20 other people get onto that bus, each one talking Italian and waving their hands. Joelle and I are the only two english speaking people on that bus. And just like the S.S. Minnow, we set out for our 3 hour tour.

The bus lurches forward. The seat has this plastic feel to it. No seat belts. The windows look like they’re locked into place. Whenever the driver shifted gears, as a collective group all of our heads would lean forward and then snap back when he lets out the clutch and hits the gas. The engine whirs loudly as we attack hill after hill.

It didn’t take long to fall under the charm of the Tuscan countryside. It’s gorgeous. We pass farm after farm. Each farm house made of beige, brown stones. The same family probably passed it down generation to generation over hundreds of years. At one point, miles of sunflowers cover the landscape like a Van Gogh inspired blanket.

The further we drove, the smaller the roads became. There’s no other traffic. It’s super peaceful. I half expect to come across a donkey, pulling a wooden cart with Geppetto on the back.

Without warning, the bus comes to a stop on the side of the road.

I glance out the window. No stop sign. No bus stop. Nothing but miles of sunflowers. I don’t see a cross road. Why are we stopping? Did we break down?

The bus driver opens the door, looks up into his mirror. He makes eye-contact with Joelle and I. He then points at us in the mirror and then points at the door.

We didn’t move. The driver points as us again. He again points out the door.

No way am I getting off this bus in the middle of nowhere! My friends will never find us here. Joelle and I will spend the rest of our lives living off of sunflower seeds.

Continued from Page 1

2 CLIFFDUVERNOIS.COM

A flash of burgundy catches my eye. Another bus parks in front of us. With stern eyes, our bus driver stabs his finger at us and then jabs it towards the second bus.

Oh, OK. Gotcha. Joelle and I grab our suitcases. In a couple minutes, we’re safely on the second bus. “Monterchi” I say, holding up our blue tickets. His flat expression either says “Don’t bother me” or he’s thinking his kids can cut better squares.

The bus lurches forward, slamming me into my seat. Ten little Italian grandmothers are all talking at once. The only Italian man starts chatting up my wife. Italian men do this for some reason. They see a woman and start talking. My wife, who is French, says she doesn’t speak Italian. He switches over to broken French. OK. Now we might stand a chance.

I show him the map, with our final destination. He hands it to one of the Italian grandmothers. Her volume level immediately increases as the map floats from one grandmother to the next. The more they talk, the louder they get, the more they wave their hands. They all talk at once, including the man. How can they understand all that chatter?

Almost 15 minutes pass. The man hands me the map back and shrugs his shoulders.

What do you mean you don’t know? What in the world have you been talking about for 15 minutes?

Once again, we have another tour of the Italian countryside. The countryside is broken up into a patchwork of farms, each covered with rows upon rows of radishes, peas, courgettes. The farms broken up by these long stone walls. Each stone carried by long dead mules, arranged by masons who had long since passed.

The bus turns around this corner. There, parked on the side of the road is another burgundy bus. No stop sign. No bus stop. No bench. How do these drivers know where to stop?

Our bus stops. The driver opens the door, looks in the mirror at Joelle and I. He shrugs his shoulders. His mouth talking in words we simply don’t understand.

The Italian man signals Joelle to follow him. I follow too. I’m not leaving my wife alone with Mr. Italian. He leads us to the next bus. He speaks Italian to the driver, who looks like a blonde PeeWee Herman. Then we climb onto his bus.

Besides the driver, we’re the only passengers.

“Monterchi” I announce. The driver gives me a funny look. Then he smiles.

“Monter-key” he corrects me.

I t s e e m s I w a s s a y i n g “Monterchi” with the last part being “chi” as in Chia Pet. My face flushes red. My head collapses into my chest. For all I know, I’ve been saying “Spank the donkey” this entire time and didn’t even know it.

Saying nothing, the driver cruises along. I have no idea where we are or what’s going on. Joelle tries to speak to the driver. All we get in return is a

forced smile and a shoulder shrug.

After about 20 minutes, we enter this medieval town. Somehow, the driver navigates these super narrow streets. How we fit is beyond me. All of the buildings are clearly hundreds of years old. Each made of stone. These large, wooden shutters cover most of the windows. Every shutter is closed.

There are no street lights. No lamps. No stop signs or stop lights. No cell service either.

The bus comes to a dead stop in the middle of the street. The driver takes my map, holds up one finger, and then leaves the bus. He crosses the street and enters this nondescript building. Is that a bar?

It’s about at this point I have nothing left. My stress tank is empty. The funny thing is that I’m not worried or freaked out. This crooked little smile creeps across my face as I think “This is fun!”

I look over at Joelle. She has the same crooked smile on her face. I consider myself very fortunate. Not everyone shares my sense of adventure or humor. Fortunately the woman I married shares both.

This blast of voices shattered the silence. The ruckus comes from the building where the driver entered. Maybe they want to arrest the donkey spanker on the bus.

No. Just the driver returns. He plants his butt in the driver's seat. He holds onto the map and the bus lurches forward. About a mile or two outside of town he stops at an intersection. He turns off the bus and stares blankly ahead.

I look at Joelle. I shrug my shoulders. She shrugs. The driver shrugs.

(Continued on Page 6…)

Continued from Page 2

3CLIFFDUVERNOIS.COM

The podunk town called Monterchi.

View of the countryside from Monterchi.

ith the release of my book, “The Value Driven Approach to Sell Real Estate”, I’m not charging people for it. My intent with the book was to help people. For those who order a

copy all I ask in return is a $5 donation to a charity of their choice.

The intent is that if I gave away 100 copies of my book, $500 would be raised for charity. If I gave away 500 copies then that would raise $2,500 for charity. All of this based on the honor-system.

The other day, an order arrived in my inbox. Along with it was this message.

Made. My. Day.

I don’t regret for a second the decision to give away the book and, on the honor system, have people donate $5 to a charity of their choice. Charles did just that. I couldn’t be more stoked.

It pleases me to no end, knowing that his donation is going to help some scared, lonely dog or cat find a home with a family with open, loving hearts. The adoption will surely create many happy memories over the years to come. A few dollars on his part will mean the world to someone else.

It’s hard to imagine what a small donation can do. How it could impact someone’s life. And you never know who might be on the receiving end of your gift.

Anthony Majavoric grew up in Southern California in the 1960’s. His mother, having gone through several husbands, finally married a semi-professional basketball player. He legally adopted Anthony and his brother and sister.

Times were tough. Anthony’s new stepfather really couldn’t provide for their family. Meals were far and few between. On more than one occasion, Anthony went to bed hungry. Something no child should ever have to endure.

The anger from their mother turn into physical abuse. Anthony did his best to shield his younger brother and sister from it.

One Thanksgiving, there was a knock at their door. Young Anthony threw open the door, eager to see who it was. In front of him was the largest turkey he had ever seen. Anthony’s eyes followed along the turkey, finally settling on the man who was holding it. Anthony didn’t recognize him. Who was this stranger bringing them food?

“Can you take this, young man?” the stranger asked, holding the turkey in front of Anthony.

He grabbed the turkey, bringing it into the kitchen. The stranger also carried a grocery sack, filled with all the Thanksgiving day trimmings. Mash potatoes, gravy, stuffing, corn, biscuits, cranberries. And of course pumpkin pie.

The stranger tipped his hat, bid the family a Happy Thanksgiving, and walked out the door. That day, Anthony and his family ate like royalty.

Unfortunately, things would get worse before they got better. After that Thanksgiving, Anthony awoke one morning to find that his step father left them. To dull her pain, Anthony’s mother turned to prescription drugs, washing them down with alcohol. Their precarious situation grew worse. Finally at the age of 17, his mother pulled a knife on him. He managed to escape the house unscathed, never to return.

He’s come a long ways since that fateful day. While his mother may not have wanted him anymore, millions of people do. From your average worker to world leaders who actively seek him out and his advice. Personal, financial, leadership, business advice constantly flows from his lips. His foundation has provided supplies to over 2,000 schools, 700 prisons and over 100,000 health and human service organizations. His programs are feeding 46 million people in over 56 countries.

But it was the kindness of that one stranger, delivering that one meal, that would stick with him. He decided to do more, to help the 13 million American children who go to bed hungry every night. A few years back, he released a book and declared that all of the proceeds would go to giving meals to America’s struggling families. For every meal one of his books purchased, he would donate a meal himself. This raised over 100 million meals.

And now he is about to do it again with the release of his next book.

If we could somehow travel back in time and meet that generous person who donated a few dollars so a complete stranger could deliver that one Thanksgiving meal … and if we could tell them the millions of people who would be fed because of that one turkey, they probably wouldn’t believe us. They’d call us crazy.

And when we show them how inspired Anthony Majavoric was, how he stood up and declared war on hunger, they’d probably look at us and say “Who is Anthony Majavoric?”

For the millions of people that he’s impacted, inspired, motivated and fed, not many people have heard his name spoken. You certainly won’t find it on any book jackets. But you probably know him better by his adopted name. Tony Robbins. Life Strategist, multi New York Times best selling author of “Awaken the Giant Within” and “Unshakeable” and many more.◼

How One Turkey Fed Millions

4 CLIFFDUVERNOIS.COM

W

am told that I’m wasting my time on you.

There I am sitting in an air conditioned, glass office building. It’s remarkably quiet, almost like a library. Every now and then, the printer whirs to life and spits out paper. Today, the paper all belongs to me.

In front of me is a book, a podcast, and a research paper. Definitely not the tools of a real estate agent. I’m editing, re-writing. There’s a ton of stories I want to share.

An older, more experienced agent comes by. She peeks over my shoulder, looking curiously at the stack of paper. “What are you doing?” she asks.

“I’m working on my newsletter.” I take a hit of my coffee.

She shakes her head and her eyes roll. “You’re wasting your time.”

Most agents use some third-party service to compose their newsletters. They’re filled with junk. “10 ways to winterize your pipes.” Or “7 ways to clean cat pee from your carpet.”

Those articles are boring. If I won’t read them then I certainly won’t subject them to anyone else. But experienced agents always tell me to use a third party service that manufactures articles just like that.

There’s this defiant streak that runs through my spine. If I feel what I’m doing is right then I have no problem going against the flow. This is just something I've always felt. Even as a kid.

During one hot, muggy, Michigan summer morning many, many moons ago my eyes sprang open. The battery that powered my six-year-old body was at 110% capacity. Conquering then the world was first on my to-do list.

My summer time attire consisted of Navy blue shorts and a striped shirt that looked like I stole it from Bert and Ernie. We had recently gone to Kmart and the blue light special was on tennis shoes. So I had a brand-new pair of shoes to destroy.

But first: breakfast.

From my bedroom, I stepped out into the kitchen. Everything was linoleum. The floor, the countertop, and I suspected the top of the table as well. My mom stood in front of the sink washing strawberries. That meant she'll be canning soon.

I climbed into my chair at the table. In front of me was everything a growing boy needs. A bowl, a spoon, a glass of Tang, a carton of milk and the most disgusting cereal in the known universe: Fruity Pebbles.

Bustling around the bottom of my chair was my new best friend. Spooky. Dachshund mix. I named him Spooky because the blackness of his fur coat reminded me of Halloween.

There was only one problem. Spooky was scared of the dark. Whenever mom said “Good night!” and turned out the lights, the blackness enveloped everything and Spooky cried.

For me, the solution was simple. If Spooky could see, he wouldn’t cry. I asked mom if I could have a flashlight to which she laughed. Apparently I wasn’t to be trusted with anything that had required batteries. How could I give him light?

The solution came to me in a vision. Rather a television. One Saturday morning, during a Scooby Doo cartoon, Fruity Pebbles announced that their cereal now comes with a glow-in-the-dark dinosaur. A Tyrannosaurus Rex, a Triceratops, or a Brontosaurus. Just hold them next to a lamp for a few minutes, turn out the lights and BAM! Lit up the entire room. Fun for the whole family! Some assembly required.

The only problem: I hate Fruity Pebbles. Revolting. Vile. The milk turns this disgusting bluish-pink color. And I had to drink it. In our house, eating at the kitchen table was almost like prison. You couldn't get out unless you ate everything on your plate first. This included revolting, disgusting bluish milk.

The Fruity Pebbles bobbed in my bowl. My stomach was already turning. I looked down and there was Spooky. His little tail was wagging. His deep brown and black eyes staring at me.

"This is for you Spooky,” I grabbed my spoon and started shoveling.

Over the course of a week, the excavation of the Fruity Pebbles continued, one bowl at a time. Somewhere buried in those blue and red pebbles lay the dinosaur bones. Every day I looked into the box, hoping to see a bit of clear plastic. Some bone sticking out. Something I could grab and end Spooky’s fear. And my misery.

Mom had a rule about cereal. You had to eat the entire box before you could get the toy. Absolutely no cheating.

But I could sense it. The dinosaur bones were there. Just hidden under some blue and red crusted pebbles. If I could just brush some of the pebbles to the side ...

Hunting Dinosaurs

5CLIFFDUVERNOIS.COM

Cliff & Spooky. Taken prior to the “incident”.

I

“Don’t even think about putting your hand in that cereal box, Cliff.” Mom warned.

That’s the first warning. Mom had eyes in the back of her head. I swear it. She didn’t even look away from the kitchen sink.

I looked again into the box. If I could shoot my hand in super quick, I could be in and out of the box with my prize and be across the kitchen before mom could grab me. Like a prison break.

“Clifford…” she warned, calmly cleaning the strawberries. Warning number two. Dark clouds started gathering on the horizon. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Boom! My hand was inside. Searching searching searching. Where is it? Too many stupid peebles! Did they forget to put the dinosaur in this box? Where are they? It has to be here somewhere! Just need a few more seconds…

“Clifford J. Duvernois!” my mom yelled.

Not my full name. It’s about to get medieval.

My last memory was of her closing the distance from the kitchen sink to the table. Then, everything went black.

When I came to, I was laying in a ditch. Missing a shoe.

Eventually, after a few more bowls of Fruity Pebbles, the dinosaur appeared at the bottom of the box. A Brontosaurus to be exact. The most boring dinosaur they offered.

It did exactly bupkis for Spooky. Actually I think he went from being scared to terrified. It would be pitch black. He couldn’t see a thing and started crying. Suddenly, this glowy-green thing appeared above his box.

And by the by, the dinosaur didn’t light up the room like they showed on TV.

Mom had an ingenious solution to the crying problem. One night, when Spooky started crying, she look into the box. “Knock it off!” she commanded. In our house, “Knock it Off!” was the 11th Commandment.

Apparently Spooky learned faster than I did. He didn’t make another sound after that.

Of course looking back, it seems ludicrous to think that a plastic toy would solve my dog's problem.

But when you know what you’re doing is right, when you know in your bones that you’re able to connect with someone, maybe brighten their day a little you have to do it. No matter what others might say.

To the older agent, I simply looked at her and smiled. “Thanks for your advice.”

I picked up my pen and started writing. ◼

Continued from Page 3 - Lost in Italy

Once again, nothing. I spot this grey station wagon, creeping down the road. I’m not sure how much more I can do this.

Getting onto another bus. Getting even more lost. I can’t even call anyone to tell them that I’m lost. Suddenly sun-flower seeds don’t sound so bad.

The station wagon pulls up alongside the bus. Only the driver is in the car. I don’t recognize him. He rolls down his window. “Steve?”

Sweet Moses! It’s a Christmas miracle!

The station wagon driver is the owner of the palazzo my friends rented. Glorious day!

Then it hits me. This bus driver isn’t anywhere near his normal route. He knew we were trying to find this place. He called the owner and arranged this spot to meet us.

I explain to Joelle what happened. She says we have to leave him a tip. So we start digging in our pockets for any money we had. Most of it was loose change. But probably 5 or 6 euros worth.

The driver smiles and waves his hands. No, No, No! But we dump the change in his hands anyway. He says “Grazie” which Joelle repeats back to him. Now I say it. Just learned my second Italian word.

Outside the bus, I’m helping get Joelle situated in the car. While she’s arranging her things, I look back up at the bus driver. He is sitting there, smiling away. He waves.

I feel really good inside. At peace. Happy because we will see our friends again soon. Happy because our trip to Italy is off to a fantastic start. All because someone cared. Because someone bent over backwards to help us. ◼

Continued from Page 5

6 CLIFFDUVERNOIS.COM

Brian D. writes: Hi I’m Brian. My girlfriend and I met you at some point this winter – you were conducting an open house for a corner property located in Bellflower across the street from a church. Something about that day in particular, told us to pull over and walk into your open house. We have really been enjoying your weekly letter and musings. It sounds like we have some values in common and both of us appreciate your point of view. We operate a landscape architecture design/build company in Orange County and have been expanding our operation to include outreach with the local homeless population. It is an important issue to us and we really love the journey that God is taking us on! That said, your stories have really resonated with us.

Cliff - Brian, that means the world to me. First, I salute you for being an entrepreneur and building your business. Second, that’s absolutely awesome that you’re reaching out to help the local homeless population. There are so many great causes out there and I’m super glad you are fighting for those in need. Keep up the good fight my friend!

Joan M. writes: I love, love it when the bad guys get caught. Bad guys have multiplied. I wonder if that sparked some of the crazy video games. There is a certain frustration that comes from being unable to do anything about the creeps soooo keep up the good work. I’m rooting for you !

Cliff - Joan, thank you for the support! I’m glad that the industry that I’m in is self-regulating as opposed to government controlled. But I’m saddened in that each time a new rule is implemented, many agents spend an inordinate amount of time trying how they can use that to their advantage at the expense of their clients. Bending of ethics or telling little white lies doesn’t break any laws or rules. Add to that the unethical actions rewards those people and they repeat that action again and again. While I may be powerless to stop them, the best I can do is expose their tactics for what they are and warn as many people as I can.

Anne T. writes: I loved your last newsletter. It was great! Did that spider story really happen?

Cliff - Anne, thanks for the fine compliment! Yes, the spider story is true. Except when the spider was talking. I added that for dramatic flair. I don’t like spiders but this thing was huge and I was a bit freaked out. I hope one day to be able to confront this fear and conquer it. But we may have a new problem. Joelle found a dead “Tarantula Hawk” in our back yard. Tarantula Hawks eat tarantulas. I can’t quite process the implications of what that means.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cliff Duvernois has been living and working in the Lakewood/Long Beach area for 20 years. In a previous life, Cliff was an engineer and programmer who fell in love with marketing and real estate. Today, Cliff is an entrepreneur and relentless innovator of the real estate industry. Cliff is a licensed agent with Keller Williams Shoreline (BRE 01990165). Cliff is a collaborator of the book, “The Value-Driven Approach to Sell Real Estate.” He co-founded the Lakewood Chapter of Entrepreneur’s Networking Group™ (ENG) and is Founder/Owner of the Property Coast team. Cliff predominantly specializes in sales of single and multi-family investment properties as well as assisting relocation and move-up homebuyers & sellers.

There is Always Much More to the Story at CliffDuvernois.com.

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Cliff’s NotesIN THIS ISSUE:

LOST IN ITALY

HOW ONE TURKEY FED MILLIONS

HUNTING DINOSAURS

If you have a friend, family member or neighbor who, like you, is interested in protecting their real estate investment and would appreciate receiving the monthly “Cliff’s Notes” newsletter, please send me an email with their name and mailing address to cliff@cliffduvernois.com. I will add them to my mailing list and be sure they receive a complimentary copy each month. To view past issues, visit CliffDuvernois.com

© 2017 Cliff Duvernois (BRE: 01990165, Keller Williams Shoreline). This information is solely advisory, and should not be substituted for medical, legal, financial or tax advice. Any and all decisions and actions must be done through the advice and counsel of a qualified physician, attorney, financial advisor and/or CPA. We cannot be held responsible for actions you may take without proper medical, financial, legal or tax advice.

with Cliff Duvernois

“Cliff’s Notes is a gem of information!” - Anne T.

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