My Airbnb: Hostess with the Someness
I lived in diaspora from 2011-2014, traveling extensively while working internationally and engaging in barter agreements for housing while I went through my first post-bac program. When I entered my current graduate degree program and finally settled into my own place again, I decided that I would enjoy visitors through Airbnb, and it would additionally provide a channel through which I could zealously advocate Detroit. www.airbnb.com/rooms/7930932
Overall, my experience has been overwhelmingly positive. I am often surprised by how many of my guests are aligned in point of view or interests, and I wonder if that is a result of being located in Detroit, the impression created by photos of my home – which reflects wide travel and a ton of books – my brief profile, or the model of Airbnb, itself. More study is needed.
As much as it has been wonderful at best, non-irritating in the norm, there have been a few situations I would not enjoy repeating. More, it is a tremendous lab for exploring social norms, expectations, communication styles and myriad other social variables which are amplified in close quarters. In some cases, I am amused at how “best behavior”-ed guests are, even feeling compelled to strip the sheets or wash my few dishes in the sink. They seem to view the situation like visiting an aunt or an old college friend, the transactional nature of it set aside and not wanting their mom to hear about a trespass later.
On the other end of the spectrum are those who treat the exchange as they would a hotel, and consequently treat me like staff. They have an expectation that I will be available whenever they want to check in, that I should respond to every inquiry instantly, and that they have no responsibility to have read instructions or descriptions in such a way that would alleviate a lot of demand on my attention. I recognize that this stems from at least two parts: one, it is a highly transactional view. “I’ve paid for this space, and so I should expect service and accommodation.” Two, indeed, Airbnb began as a paid Couchsurfing experience, but quickly morphed into more operationalized private guest houses, suites and other accommodations which were removed from someone’s “home” and into a quasi-commercial realm of service – taking advantage of the opportunity, while avoiding all the regulation. In fact, I am often asked how a guest will enter the space, presuming that no one will be here and it will be a faceless transaction. It would seem to be clear from my description of the listing that it is a “homestay,” but as we know, the internet has taught us to look at the pictures and avoid content. Therefore, the lines of just what one should expect have been blurred and remain fungible, requiring every stay to become a negotiation, instead of creating any baseline understandings.
But beyond interesting results of commercializing what would otherwise be a social relationship, other random issues crop up. I will never understand, for example, why some guests ignore the pretty, fluffy towels I’ve folded in a special Z for them and laid out on the bed, rifling instead through my linen closet, unfolding and testing every ratty towel in lieu. Some guests apparently think I don’t wash the linens inbetween each guest, because they make the bed upon leaving; I, on the other hand, am dismayed by how hard washing sheets and towels so often is on them, aging them quickly. This is exacerbated by the stains of food or cosmetics and oils which people generously leave, feeling that at home. I’d like to think that I avoid many cultural conflicts, because I’m so woke, but recently I had an Italian visitor who rarely left the house and never seemed to eat anything besides prepackaged danishes he’d brought with him (as though we might not have an analog here). He gave me a lovely gift of organic pasta and wine, which was generous and very Italian – but which I demurely tucked away, so as to not effectively reject the gift by revealing I neither eat gluten nor drink. Only after he’d left did it occur to me how insanely rude I’d been, since he expected that I would subsequently whip up a pasta dish for us and share the wine. And he had been forced to sit in the house, eating cupcakes and pizza for 10 days because I didn’t cook for him once, nor take him on a tour of anything – as he presumed I would, because that’s what hosts do. That was an unfortunate disconnect, but one I mostly had to laugh at, given its many layers of gender projections. Sorry, but I was too busy hanging drywall and sanding floors on my rehab to have much time to both bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan.
Mostly, however, either the best or the most troublesome disconnects stem from my dog, Totem. I make it clear that I have a dog: her picture is featured, and she’s mentioned in several places, not the least of which in Airbnb’s automated checklist of house amenities. Indeed, many guests book because I have a dog. They say in messages how cute she is, and how they look forward to meeting her. They often leave reviews which highlight her over the house, me or Detroit! But I am not deluded: Totem was a rescue and although smallish, rambunctious at times. She is not the best host dog; she requires some effort get past a stranger danger reaction (after which she becomes a complete attention hound). Nevertheless, why anyone would book a stay in a house with a dog when they so clearly either dislike or are afraid of dogs is a constant source of amazement…and stress to us both. One German couple, with whom there was more than one point of contention, wrote that they were appalled to find some dog hair on the floor and her barking when they came through the door was “unsympathetic.”
When people write negatively about her, they always seem compelled to assure everyone that they normally love animals. In this case, the couple wrote that while they normally loved animals…and then went on to say how appalled they were at the realities of an actual animal in the house. Another recent visitor pulled out sheets from the closet and slept on top of the bed because there was a dog hair on the covers. I have more accurately re-written an amalgam of comments here:
Although we normally love dogs and booked this space precisely because of our ginormous affinity for animals, we found the situation wholly unsympathetic. This particular dog had hair, which was not contained only to its body, but which we sometimes saw in other places before our host would sweep. Although this hair was considerably less than what we, ourselves, shed in the bathroom and on the sheets, this was offensive to us as evidence of rudeness and disdain for our comfort. Also, it surprised us to no end that although we stayed in our room, except when we came out solely to interact through a demand, the dog actually barked – not startled to find someone suddenly emerge from a hidden space with a perceptible attitude about the wi-fi – but as a horrific lapse in decorum. Who knew dogs made any kind of noise, given that all of our many and loving interactions with them had never encountered it. Not only this, but we saw a sole hair, which we believed to be the dog’s hair, on our comforter, which although it might have come from the wash, or resulted from the host brushing up against it while making the bed, or even just the air, was clearly an epic contaminate requiring the entire bed be quarantined and making clear the place was filthy with animal-ness. Although I’ve never had an allergy to any animal before, exposure to this single hair unequivocally caused me to break out into hives for days, which is why I should receive a full refund.
Hey, I get it. People unaccustomed to the realities of dogs have a right not to like it, just like some people wouldn’t like staying in a place with evidence of children. I, myself, had a stomach turning stay with an otherwise lovely woman in Berkeley who had a cat. I like cats, hair, hair balls and all, but this particular one liked to spend quite a lot of time on the dining table, which was a first problem, and had a large oozing sore on its head, which was the second problem. I hope it’s obvious and okay to say that this kept me from eating there. I absolutely affirm that although people are entering our home, and not the Westin, we cannot reasonably expect paying guests to put up with the perhaps maladaptive comfort we have with oozing cat sores or borderline hoarding.
But also, guests have to take responsibility for some measure of their expectations and experience. If you really want a hotel experience, book a hotel. Or, at least book a place which markets itself as a self-catering, self-contained space, so that you can pass through in transactional anonymity. If you want what I regard as the benefit of Airbnb – brief incorporation of the local, on the ground experience – then read the descriptions and be honest about what matters to you. For example, rarely will I stay in a place which doesn’t have a private guest bath, because I do not want to encounter the artifacts of people’s most intimate spaces. In a warm place, I must have A/C, because I am a tundra rose, not a hothouse flower. I like cats, but I don’t want to ever see the litter box, and I will evaluate your listing to see how sensitive you are to these kinds of details. It’s all fair, except when we have expectations which would clearly be unmet by our own choices. (And that kinda holds for every situation in life.)