I value not getting me or my family raped, murdered or videoed for an internet sex tape more than I do saving a couple hundred bucks. But obviously not that much more, or I wouldn’t have booked my first Airbnb with the same level of scrutiny I normally apply to clicking “Accept Cookies.”
Airbnb has always creeped me out. And I’m someone who once slept in a youth hostel converted from an art museum in which pigeons flew above my head.
Yes, Airbnb verifies hosts with IDs and social media links. But at the end of the day, you’re still entering a complete stranger’s private home. A stranger whose definition of “clean” may not rise to the lofty standard of not wiping their ass on the couch when they’re alone.
And while Airbnb “requires” its hosts to disclose security cameras, that policy carries the same weight as “we recommend you floss more” because a reasonable expectation of privacy applies only in proper hotels.
Still, a few years back, we wanted a spontaneous weekend beach trip to Los Angeles. But when you book three days out, every hotel room near the ocean costs $350 a night or requires a commute qualifying as a second vacation.
So I tried Airbnb. Naturally, I clicked “entire place” instead of “shared room.” Of the 100 results that filled the page, most were a few miles from the beach and appeared decent. But the prices still averaged $300 a night, which defeated the purpose. So I dragged the price slider down to $200 just to see what kind of chaos lived there.
Four listings survived. Two required the three of us to share a twin bed. One featured bedbugs smiling for the camera. And God knows what was wrong with the fourth, because it was only five blocks away from the beach—the others were miles—and displayed only an exterior photograph of the apartment building.
Then I noticed another row of “Similar Listings” at the bottom. And there it was: a gorgeous one-bedroom in Westwood, 15 minutes from the beach. And only $150 a night! What the what? I booked immediately, before anyone else with a functioning brain beat me to it.
Ten minutes later the host messaged, asking the nature of our trip, and who would be joining me. Reasonable questions: The same ones I’d ask my guests if I didn’t intend to serial kill and eat them.
My wife agreed it seemed legit. Though mostly in a way that indicated that she would also love to see this fail and use it against me during our next major argument.
We arrived at the apartment garage and were greeted by a man who looked and spoke exactly like Lars Ulrich from Metallica, if Lars Ulrich had pivoted to real estate. He showed us our parking space, helped unload our bags and walked us upstairs. The apartment was even nicer than the photos. I turned to my wife and asked why everyone doesn’t use Airbnb.
The universe answered me immediately. This beautiful one-bedroom apartment … had two bedrooms. And “Lars” walked into the second one as he cheerfully announced, “See you tonight!”
Tonight?
Suddenly, all his earlier somewhat intrusive questions made sense: What time do you usually come home?
When do you go to sleep? Do you like watching TV loudly?
I just figured he had sensitive neighbors. But, for the first time since Friends was still on the air, I had a roommate. Then it hit me; “Similar Listings” meant different variables. Obviously, “entire place” was the culprit.
This was entirely my fault, not my new roomie’s. That major argument with my wife was about to happen after all. She glared at me with the intensity of someone mentally drafting divorce papers.
There Lars was. Everywhere. When we ventured to the fridge, he was in the living room, waving like Kramer on the couch when Jerry came home.
“Daddy, who’s that man in our hotel?” our young daughter wondered.
Ironically, one of the conversations we had with her on our road trip was about strangers. They aren’t necessarily bad, we said, but you can never trust them unless we say it’s OK.
So we moved in with one.
Instead of a carefree weekend, we were now Anne Frank-ing together in a 250-square-foot room, taking fully clothed trips to the hallway bathroom. And we were whispering because the walls were so thin, we could hear the German guy in the next room breathing.
Lars was actually a lovely guy. Polite, helpful, friendly. Not remotely threatening. And at some point, I realized he was the one taking the real risk; letting total strangers into his home based on a website’s promise that we weren’t unhinged.
By the end of the weekend, my wife, daughter and I had bonded like never before. We cracked each other up with whispered jokes under the covers. We ran reconnaissance missions to see if the bathroom was clear. We united against a common, harmless foe: The roommate we didn’t expect. We didn’t get any relaxation or privacy. But we got closer.
We’re thinking of inviting Lars on our next vacation.
