How not to be a d*ck

What Airbnb taught me about human nature and intolerance

Photo by Denny Müller on Unsplash

This week I’ve had an experience so evil, so horrifying, so singularly chilling that I shudder just thinking of it. I have peered so deeply into the darkness of man’s soul that I fear I will never be the same again. And no - it wasn’t watching the Presidential debates.

I rented my house out on Airbnb.

I’d been flirting with the idea for a while. I live in an idyllic cottage in one of the most beautiful areas of the country. It’s beautifully decorated and I’ve spent a small fortune installing two immaculate new bathrooms among other improvements. I’m away a lot so it made sense to try and ‘sweat the asset’.

Only it’s not an asset - it’s my home. And - raving hippy at heart that I am - something never sat right with me when it came to inviting strangers’ energy into my oasis. Plus, let’s be honest, I’m fundamentally lazy and couldn’t be fucked to pack all my belongings away.

Then I was informed that my current job would not, as advertised, last until the end of the year. But would - just for LOLs - stop in four weeks time. Staring down the barrel of an unpaid mortgage, I realised I really didn’t have much choice. I listed my baby and waited to see what happened. And lo - there were enquiries and bookings!

In the run up to my first visitors’ arrival I spent days packing my shit away and making the house as clean and perfect as it could be. It was painful but - I figured - worth it. I started to think of what nice touches I could add to make my guest’s stay enjoyable. I bought them toiletries and laid them on the bed with folded towels. I wrote an entire manual about the house, then continued to list every useful piece of information I could think of, from food shop and pub recommendations to where to seek medical attention. I bought file dividers for fuck’s sake. I wanted it to look beautiful.

I messaged my incoming guest to check they had everything they needed and also checked that they were happy the house was my home - and not a sterile holiday cottage. “No problem” they replied “That’s fine - thank you for checking!”.

I was nervous - but excited. Perhaps hosting was my calling! I could provide people with a lovely few days of luxurious relaxation! How lovely was that? After all, Airbnb had started out as a form of community. A different way of travelling that put you in touch with local people and gave you a more homely experience. How wonderful to be part of this glorious global community! Hurrah!

The day arrived. As it happened, I was attending a wedding that day - but I sent welcome messages and stayed glued to my phone in case of emergencies.

All seemed well and I started to relax. Until 9.15pm when a message popped in. The guest informed me that they wished to leave as they had found dog hair on the sofa and felt they could not stay the night. They had also informed Airbnb.

My heart sank. Horrified and mortified I asked for more detail. I own a dog so had gone to great lengths to ensure no trace was left of her. How had I managed to miss something so awful that rendered my entire house apparently uninhabitable??

In response I received photographs. One of a small amount of hair and dust in a corner of my sofa where the cushions had clearly been removed (you know - that area that you sometimes find small change in?). Quite why anyone would search down there I’m not sure - but you live and learn.

In addition to this aberration I received a photograph of… a cobweb in a window. I hold my hands up. I somehow missed this. Possibly because it was behind some secondary glazing. Possibly because the house was cleaned a couple of days before their arrival and spiders work fast. But there it was.

Airbnb were quickly on my case. I had apparently ‘violated’ their rules with my homage to Miss Havisham’s derelict mansion. The trip would be cancelled. I would receive no money. Messages popped in about action I needed to take on the house. When I clicked into this message it somewhat unfathomably said ‘mould’. What kind of mould? Spider mould? Had cobwebs - without my knowledge - been revealed not as incredible feats of silky engineering from arachnids, but in fact strings of mould trails left by flies they left too long in the larder??

And just like that… my faith in humanity was vanquished.

Can’t we all just stop being dicks?

As absurd as it sounds, this experience hit me quite hard. I think possibly because of how much emotional energy and time it had taken for me to open up my home. Because of the effort I put in. Because of the touches I put in place to make it not just a lovely house - but a great place to stay.

On top of this, this experience made me question my own standards. I had thought they were quite high. It’s important to my anxious mind to have a calm and well ordered environment around me. I have worked in the past as a secret hotel inspector for fuck’s sake (more on this another time). In short, I’m reasonably confident I know the difference between a decent place to stay and a rotting and uninhabitable crack den.

But apparently I do not.

I jest (slightly) but the sad truth of the matter is that at no point was I given the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I didn’t deserve it. But if it were me I like to think I could have overlooked a cobweb and some deep sofa fluff in an otherwise immaculate home. I like to think I would have had a decent and considered human response.

I worry that - in life in general - decent human responses to situations are on the wane. I don’t - of course - mean serious situations. If someone murders your cat and steals all your jewellery, you would be wrong to write it off as someone ‘having a bad day’.

I’m talking about the mild fuck ups every one of us is guilty of on a daily basis. The thing we said that came out wrong. The door we failed to hold open because we were thinking about something else. The birthday we forgot because nobody goes on Facebook anymore and that was it’s one useful feature. The wrong lane we ended up in because the road signs were confusing.

It seems with mild fucks-ups we could extend a bit more benefit of the doubt. To lengthen our fuses a little - so there’s some space before we hit the nuclear button.

I feel increasingly like I’m walking a tightrope of perfection - and, should I err slightly, I am thrown to the crocodiles below. Be that being dumped by a friendship group for reasons unknown or being rejected for jobs I am entirely qualified for.

At a macro level this is cancel culture - and a rise of the cult of narcissistic ‘wellbeing’. The latter is recognisable by any messaging that you are the most important being in the world and anyone behaving in way that is counter to this belief must be ‘toxic’. The irony being that it’s exactly this behaviour that is toxic.

I choose to believe most of us are trying our hardest. Perhaps that’s naive, but I’m happier to live that way than to assume everyone is a c*nt. I believe we are human and flawed and we make mistakes and we try and learn from them. And that if we acknowledge others’ fuck ups in the way we’d like to be treated when we fuck up, then life would feel a lot kinder and happier.

There’s a lot wrong in the world at the moment on both a micro and geo-political level. People are bombing each other. Major elections are coming up where the main candidates represent at best a who’s who of who you wouldn’t want to sit next to at a dinner party - and at worst people who are insane/dangerous. Fear, uncertainty and prejudice are rife. Life is expensive. The job market is fucked.

I feel like everyone could do with a really big hug.

Failing that, I feel like we could all (and I include myself in this) could cut others a bit more slack. I don’t know anyone who isn’t having a tough time in some area of life at the moment. And stressed people sometimes mess things up. I’m not saying let people treat you badly - I’m just suggesting we look at the broader context before we judge others harshly. As it’s football season maybe we could use a yellow card instead of jumping straight to red* [*here endeth my knowledge of football].

In that spirit, who knows what was going on with my guest. Perhaps they were dealing with the stressful emergence of a secret family they didn’t know they had. Maybe they’d had a traumatic experience as a child with a spider… or the back of a sofa. Maybe they’d been dumped or cheated on or fired. Maybe they had a niche medical condition that means their head explodes if they have to sleep within 4 metres of a cobweb. Anything could be going on and I understand I mildly fucked up.

Just don’t be a dick about it, yeah?

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Hello friends - and thank you for reading! As ever, I would love to hear your views. Are you experiencing less tolerance… or am I being brain-washed by the misery chasing press?! Have you ever regretted renting your house out? Is a cobweb a deal breaker for you? Have you ever looked down the back of a strangers sofa? If so what did you find…?! Or have you just mildly fucked up today? If so well done you… I salute your humanity.