Middle-Aged Me and Airbnb

Four rules for choosing an Airbnb, gleaned from living in them for a year.

The cabbie dropped us in front of a tall cast-iron gate rimming a parking lot in front of what looked like a school building.

“This is it, huh? Do you want to double-check that address?” he added before putting the cab in park. He was being extra solicitous to us gray hairs.

“Giles Street, yep, this is it,” I say, half hoping it’s wrong.

The gate was locked, armed with a silver-keyed punch-pad like you see on psyche wards. I tapped in the numbers that our Airbnb “host” had texted us as the cabbie drove away. The gate, I quickly gathered, was not yet a decorative element like you see in posh streets in Manhattan or Chicago. Quite the opposite. The gate was an assurance created by real estate agents to lure gentrifiers like us to the neighborhood.

A faint rattling was, we realized, our buzz in. As Rex, my husband, heaved the gate open, a lanky young man in droopy jeans and a hoodie was kicking in the Amazon lockers in an empty lot near a shopping strip next door. Three teenagers egged him on. So Leith, that Edinburgh neighborhood where Trainspotting was filmed, has not yet matched the breathless marketing descriptions. No worries, I thought to myself as I kept an eye on the young men. I managed to survive Chicago before it was safe for suburbanites. I can handle Leith.

This is the life of an Airbnb renter. Codes and keys that don’t work, instructions emailed with photos and arrows pointing to doorways, dark hallways and steep stairs, grouchy neighbors sick of answering the door to lost Airbnbers who mistake their apartment for the one they’ve rented.

I’ll be honest. As a 56-year-old, I was skeptical about Airbnb when it was proposed to us as an option for this year of travel. Frankly, the whole sharing economy is not for me. I still prefer taxis and posh hotel rooms. And worker and consumer protections. So could I live with all that Ikea furniture and sleep on another person’s sheets for a year? On top of it, we weren’t just in/out for a weekend getaway. We would stay a month typically in each place. And I’m kinda picky. Ok, very picky.

So could I live with all that Ikea furniture and sleep on another person’s sheets for a year?

It is a crap shoot when you click “book” and plop down your money — will the pictures match the reality? Will there be a coffee pot? Will the windows open? Will the neighborhood be safe?­ But it is also a boon to people like my husband and I, traveling for a year, staying in each locale for a month and in need of a washer and dryer, wifi, and non-hotel prices.

The Honeymoon Stage

With each Airbnb there’s a honeymoon stage where every quirk and scuff is charming, but as with all honeymoons, it comes to an end and you’re staring down the 30-year anniversary of morning farts and bad breath. With time on the road, my honeymoon period was abbreviated to a long weekend.

In a Parisian abode, the honeymoon ended in 24 hours as I scrunched in my elbows like a praying mantis so I could turn around in the orgasmatron shower and scratch the mosquito bites on my back that had appeared after a night with the windows open and no screens. The bathroom floor had a century of gunk that resembled the gummy finish of old furniture. Kitchen drawers stuttered and stuck, and what genius thought it was a good idea to put the pots and pans in the floor cupboard farthest in the corner on a metal pull-out shelf that jumps its track each and every time? And a sink so small that washing dishes means emptying it three time to avoid overflow?

Sometimes, though, the honeymoon turns into a great marriage. We had a lovely shabby chic home in St. Leonards on Sea, and home in the suburbs of Dublin with slate floors in the bathroom and a kitchen I can only dream of. In Croatia we were high atop a hill in a cute apartment with a balcony overlooking the sea with a retractable awning and swallows darting high above as I ate my fresh peaches each morning. Our London flat in Chelsea had high ceilings and crown molding and a very posh green-velvet couch and a hi-fi. And Australia — they do Airbnbs right. Airy, spacious, wonderfully modern bathrooms, always near a beach.

Divorce

This apartment I was walking into had all the potential to be very cool, carved from an old schoolhouse with just enough authenticity remaining.

Ah but potential is one thing. Execution is quite another. We opened the door to what can only be called “spartan meets dorm room.” I recall the owner’s chipper bio: “Hi, I’m Dylan. I’m an American PhD school student who plays bagpipes.” The living room couch was a lumpy futon and a rickety table with equally rickety slat-wood chairs from Ikea. The kitchen cupboards had an overabundance of whiskeys and a curry spices. No wine glasses. No microwave. No coffee maker. No TV. No toaster. No hair dryer. On the window a crow bar for aid in opening.

And don’t even get me started on the filth in the bathroom. The shower head was at eye level and the faucet has no bearing on temperature, which ran whimsically from ice-bath to scalding. During my first foray into the shower, I’d scraped my fingernail over the tile. While waiting for the water temperature to adjust. What I’d thought was stained was actually fresh, orange mildew.

And thus my new first rule for choosing Airbnb: never rent from a twenty-something guy.

Four Rules: A Personal Algorithm for Picking the Right Place

Rule #1 (never to be broken). Don’t rent from a 22-year-old guy (sorry guys).

They just don’t get hospitality.

Rule #2: Look at the pictures. Wait a day, then look again.

Window that are wedges of light at the top of the wall — you’re below ground. Angled ceilings? You’re in the top apartment in Paris (no elevator, six floors) and you’ll hit your head every time you get out of bed and you will have to shave stooped over. An overabundance of “view” shots or scenes from the city? The apartment is a dog. Ask yourself: What are they notshowing in photos? No photos of bathroom? Don’t click “book.” Just don’t do it. Look on the kitchen counters — no coffeemaker? Microwave? Stovetop? Airbnb doesn’t tell you a lot about the kitchen so be sure you see what matters to you.

Find the sweet spot between overly sterile and too personal. White walls and Ikea furniture means the guy (see Rule #1) has bought several apartments and is relying on you to pay his mortgage. Too personal (too many shelves crammed with stuff), expect a 10-page instruction manual, “don’t touch” stickers everywhere, and a strong smell of cardamom.

Rule #3: Read the reviews, all of them.

Start with the worst reviews, and know that people really, really want to say something nice. Look for things like distance to grocery stores and transit, and what people say about the stairs (you’re the one hoofing it up and down every day). Look for repeated complaints. And like with all real estate, read between the lines. When the nice reviewer says, “it could have used some more towels, but we got by,” or “AC would have been nice but there was a cool breeze” know that the towels were always wet and it was steaming hot in the apartment. Pro tip: Discount anyone who thinks it’s amazing that the owner left a bottle of wine: amateurs.

Rule #4: Find out where the place really is.

Airbnb does not reveal the exact address until you book. Instead it gives you that radar-sweep circle on a map. With a little sleuthing (reviews might mention landmarks or grocery stores, for example), you can get at least closer to the locale. Then use TimeOut’s neighborhood guides or TripAdvisor to decipher what matters to you in a neighborhood. I would search for restaurants and grocery stores in the vicinity because you don’t want to always be on a bus or in a taxi just go out to dinner.

Once you’ve got it narrowed down to two places, sleep on it and look again tomorrow. Then commit. And don’t look back. Happy travels!