Homes

                                       Homes

I’m trying to understand, even though I hated being blamed. Things went south so fast. Now that it’s over, I can see that maybe she didn’t know.  About the dog.  I didn’t get that for a while.  I didn’t get it, I think now, because there’s something that happens between women. There’s a switch that turns on that’s hard to shift out of. It’s old; it’s maybe about survival. It’s maybe about homes; houses; safe havens.  It happens when there’s no man around.

I had more trepidation than usual before this trip. Even though the place looked fantastic on Airbnb; even though I usually feel good after my solo excursions. The price was right; reviews were glowing; it would only be four days. And when I called her beforehand to relieve my fears, she was indeed sweet, welcoming.  As promised.  So, let it go, I told myself.  And let’s go!

I got there after a three-hour drive, dinner and drinks. Not yet tipsy, just feeling no pain, and gratified when she greeted me, all smiles, at the door. No lockbox to manage. She ushered me in to a phenomenal house. 

If my taste could be displayed in spades, no holds barred, all cost covered: here it was.  Oak everything; curving banister; hardwood floors; woven baskets; stained glass; art deco figurines; Mission furniture. There was a living room for my use; a rose garden; a sunroom; a wrap-around porch steeped in couches, hammocks, easy chairs. Everywhere I looked there were antiques and unusual, spectacular plants. Vivid colors; fertile greenery.

Why would I even bother going to the beach? Why not just hang out here? I followed her upstairs to my room. That, too, looked perfect. Especially since, thank goodness, nobody had booked the other two rooms. So close together!  And it would have been a squeeze, sharing the one bathroom. She was showing me the tub, now. There were jets and I was supposed to put some sort of cleaner in them. OK. And this is your drawer, these are your towels, this and that. All good!

Back downstairs, in the living room, I was introduced to her adult daughter – forty-something – who lived somewhere on the vast premises of this sprawling castle - and her rescued dog. She explained that she loves dogs and can’t resist giving them safe haven. We sat together for a good half hour, chatting pleasantly, while the dog jumped around yapping at me and I attempted to quiet it down, assuring her it was no problem.  And it wasn’t. He was cute; the place was wonderful; the trip would be good.

That night, testing out my bed for the first time, I was introduced to another dog. It was in the neighborhood somewhere close by, and it barked non-stop for at least an hour while I waited, on edge, for sleep to come rescue me. The bark was sharp; the dog was urgently unhappy. I was trapped in its vortex of pain. Well: here it is, I thought. Trouble in paradise. My sleep, when it arrived, was restless.

The next day I awoke to a huge, silent house. Coffee. I padded downstairs, collected my drink and bagel, and set out to enjoy the country air on the porch. Or maybe the rose garden. Or the sunroom. What glorious excess! I pushed the door open to the wraparound porch, found the hammock, and settled in with my morning treats. I was facing a huge green lawn tightly bordered by high cypresses. No sign of other houses. The view was all mine. Country at last!  I took a deep breath in.

Yuck. This wasn’t the smell I had yearned for. Not by a long shot. What was it? Something disagreeable, despite the grass, despite plants and roses and open air. More trouble in paradise. I hadn’t noticed it the night before, but now it simply took over. Rank odor. I quickly finished my breakfast and took off for the beach.

It wasn’t a good day, my first full day of the four-day trip. I was tired and restless. The beach was small; the water cold; the weather, cloudy and not very warm; the town was too tony and too quickly surveyed.  I roamed around, at a loss. Went to the German museum; saw the historic buildings; scarfed the local ice cream. What else? I couldn’t go back to shower or take a nap or just hang out. My home-away-from-home was too far away.  What was I thinking?

Well, at least I needed to message her about the dog. At least I won’t go through another sleepless night. First, I asked her about her daughter’s dog. We had talked the night before about the fact that it was at the vet and might have to be put down. It ate something bad, who knew what?  And I had sympathized at length, knowing from my own experience with a cat, how hard that is.  So, in my message, I first inquired, and discovered that, yes, it had been put down. Sad.

I offered my condolences. Then I let her know that both the bed and the breakfast were great, thanks! But there was a smell that I wondered about. And, unfortunately, a barking dog. Did she know anything about that? It barked for an hour and I was both worried about it and not able to sleep. She responded right away: she would contact the owner of the dog. 

It was a relief to get such an evidently concerned response, and so I was surprised when she didn’t fill me in that night. We were standing opposite one another, she on the other side of her kitchen counter. I was surprised that I had to bring it up, and when I did, I was even more surprised by her response. Her eyes narrowed. He said the dog wasn’t used to being locked out of the house, put in the garage, she said shortly. I told him he was ruining my business and he made it clear he didn’t care. She gave me a long look as she wiped off the counter between us.  Why did it bother you, anyway?

I was taken aback.  Why did it bother me???  She kept going.  Did the dog bark all night or just for an hour.  Because: I wouldn’t have been bothered by just an hour.

I responded as carefully as I could. It was getting hot between us. I found it hard to believe that she was making me the bad guy. I would have gladly joined her in dissing this neighbor but, instead, she was putting me on the defensive for even being bothered.  Ridiculously, I found myself barking repeatedly at her to demonstrate how it sounded.  As if I had to prove my case! Then I went up to bed, disgusted.  

Here I am, a paying guest.  Being blatantly wronged. It was clear to me that she expected a bad review, and so she was already, in anticipation, angry at me. Defending herself. Airbnb is all about reviews – of both host and guest.

I wouldn’t have given her a bad review. I wanted to work it out. But she failed to make any appearance, either the next morning, the next night, or the next morning. Oh, her daughter did. On the last evening.  Her daughter drifted around me, watering plants, chatting in a friendly, beseeching way. It felt like she was wordlessly begging me not to ruin them with a bad review. Which was funny, really. The amount of money in that house, in that extensive property, could have provided me with housing for the rest of my life. 

She claimed her mother – whose extreme fatigue had put her to bed early - wanted to say good-bye before I left the next morning. So, I waited.  I did. I don’t like bad air, either from chicken farms (that was the noxious odor) or between people. I like closure; resolution; peace.  And yet: it takes two.

I came to believe only after I reviewed her and she complained about my review, and I complained about her complaining, that she, in fact, might have never heard that dog barking before. It was kind of a new angle.  Maybe it was the first time the dog had been put in that garage. Maybe she was caught off-guard.

I still didn’t like it that she made me the bad guy for even being bothered. But it strikes me that there is about these arrangements, these so-called homes-away-from-homes the ready potential for things going south. After all, who wouldn’t want maximum control over their own house? And who wouldn’t be hurt by bad reviews of their home? And who wouldn’t be caught off-balance, given the need for maximum control, by a barking dog that was, one fateful night, forced to stay in the garage. Just when the last guest of the season decides to visit.

I can be gracious. I can understand.  And I’d almost gone that entire Second Mile, as we are urged to do.  Just a few steps left.  But, writing this now, recognizing the signs, I’ve got to admit: it still rankles. The blame. And did she have to gripe online about where I put my towels? Towels!  Or about not cleaning the tub?  Guests don’t have to clean the tub.  And, come to think of it, that smell – the smell of mounds and mounds of chicken poop just beyond the not-at-all shielding cypresses – she knew about that. All along. It could be considered false advertising - not to alert her guests beforehand.  

And, wait a minute, if she knew about the noxious smell without saying, couldn’t the dog have barked many times before and she knew about that, as well?  How, in fact, did she know which neighbor, which dog it was?  And wasn’t that, really, why she was so angry at me? Taking it out on me. No doubt she had had to call that neighbor many times before. And many times before he had said go to hell.

One time the dog even barked the entire night. So, what did I have to be upset about, hmm? An hour is nothing!

I was glad to get home.  My very own home. Even though I had managed some fun and the dog was quiet the next two nights.  My cat never barks; I can take a nap anytime I want to; no one tells me to clean the tub; there is no paid-for conflict to be suffered through. No conflict at all.

I’ve been wondering why I do these silly trips. There’s always something that goes wrong. And it’s usually because the hostess is mad about her predicament. That she has to rent out rooms. That she no longer has any help from a man. That she’s all alone. That she can’t control smells and barking dogs. That she’s got so much but so little.

I feel lucky. I’ve set things up so that I live where there are no dogs allowed; my minimal space requires minimal upkeep and a minimal mortgage.  I will never need to share my home with strangers to get by financially. And, except for the occasional silly trip, trying to happily stay with an unhappy hostess, I’m fine being alone. I don’t need a man.

I don’t need one, but it would be helpful to have one.  That’s for sure.  If a man was standing next to me? She never would have snarled like that, and I never would have barked back at her.  She would have hummed and cooed.  Let me make this bad night up to you, she would have hastened to say, with a gracious smile. Let me refund you. Of course you had trouble sleeping.  Anyone would.

Like I said before, when I almost went the Second Mile: There is something that happens between women. In their houses. Some switch that gets pulled.  And it’s all over from then on.