The day I became the biggest complainer in the Airbnb world

I love Airbnb and I don’t remember the last time I stayed at a hotel. It’s usually cheaper, sometimes more convenient and there is always a chance for surprise, ranging from a small one, such a door lock malfunction to an eye-rolling one like eight people line by the single bathroom door. A piece of freshly baked, still warm and perfectly crusty peach cobbler, fresh eggs from home raised, physically and mentally stable chicken can be another type of surprise.

Each house, apartment, a room has a story – sometimes it’s super boring and colorless, other times –  funky and quirky, but presented in an artisanal style, with a designer’s eye … Or, old-fashioned but so warm and cozy, that you feel you’re back to your beloved grandma’s house and blurry childhood memories. After all, the beauty is in the eye of the beholder, right?

Most people are renting their spaces because of the additional income. A lot of hassle, but good money, too. Some, most likely the minority, look at this adventure as a certain self-expression. They might have lived with this long kept, deeply stuck desire to have their own bed and breakfast, maybe a café or a restaurant, or just love for decorating houses, sharing their passions, or… who knows what.

For people like me, who think they can write, these stays are much more than a cheaper lodging option. It’s always an experience, mostly good and sometimes crazy, that I can relive through the written word. By the way, some Airbnb hosts have an amazing talent for writing that manifests in guest manuals. For instance, a lady in Denver, who considers herself an artist, wrote a 10+ page guest manual, ranging from tips on how to get into the house (it was so creative it took me and my daughter about one hour to demystify the lock) to loving stories of her housemates, 4 furry cats. Their names were so exotic I can’t remember them anymore but one cat was especially memorable – she had only one eye and was always sitting on the stairs, staring at you like a white ghost from Luis Bunuel’s “The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie”.  

My most experiential Airbnb stay was in NYC, not in Denver, though. I booked the place about 3 months ago when I decided to fly to New York for a women’s content creators conference. I was looking for an affordable option and a convenient location. Chelsea is one of my favorite NY neighborhoods and only a 20 minute- commute from the Conference’s venue.

I knew It would be a tiny room, on the 6^th  floor, with no elevator. I didn’t know it could so hot and humid and the building wouldn't have any fresh air to breathe, while in the motion of dragging the luggage up to the sixth floor.

I knew it would be a shared bathroom, but I had no clue that 4 rooms and 8 people will be sharing that one bathroom. I knew there will be an old air conditioner installed in the window, but I couldn’t predict that it would be roaring like a tractor and blowing cold air right into my face, because the pillow was next to it, with no room to move it. Only after I came back from the trip, I realized that a set of earplugs, placed on a shabby night table by the bed, were designated to prevent guests’ ears from the monster air conditioner, not from a street noise. I’m slow in figuring things out on my own so I would have appreciated a little note, that can be tucked stylishly in a Chinese fortune cookie: “With these earplugs, your good night sleep is guaranteed”. Without advance notice, I was rolling in the bed, squeezed between the wall and my daughter, who decided to fly with me the last minute, so I paid an extra fee for the room and was granted an extra dose of discomfort.

My first need of the bathroom was to pee, brush my teeth, wash hands and it lasted 5 minutes. My teen daughter enjoys quality time in the bathroom and was about to indulge for 20 minutes or more but got a couple of knocks on the door and vacated the facility after the first 10. The next morning was more intense. I got up at 7 am to get ready for the conference. The bathroom was taken for 20, 30 minutes… I waited and waited and then knocked. It magically worked and I was able to get in. A 5- minute express shower got me refreshed and I decided to be courteous and left immediately. There was a young guy at the door, ready to take it over. The bathroom didn’t get a work break and was steaming with the same occupant for another 30 minutes. My daughter didn’t have to leave with me, so I left her in peace and hoped she'd have her turn sometime.

I knew the room would have a wi-fi. When I first tried to connect, using the info, listed on the website, nothing happened. I wrote to the host and he provided a new login information. Nope. The host suggested to locate the router, turn it off and turn it back on. No luck. I gave up at midnight and went to bed. The next morning greeted me with the message from the host that nobody else in the apartment has issues with the wi-fi, with the underlying message: you’re crazy, woman… The last morning, feeling an urge to play a detective, I tried to login in the living room, not in my bedroom. It worked, just an hour before the checkout time.  The bedroom I stayed in, was too far from the router, separated by the thick east coast old house walls. I felt like a winner, post factum, though.

In my daily work life, I deal with the right messaging and user experience, so I decided to share my professional input with the host, to make other guests’ experience more enjoyable than experiential. In my opinion (who cares, though) the room is not suited for two unless you’re on your honeymoon and enjoy being squeezed in and entangled in each other’s bodies. But who would stay in such a hole in the wall for their honeymoon? Addressing every single aspect of the customer experience, I made a long list of suggestions.

My constructive criticism (so I thought) wasn’t received well and my honesty was perceived as questionable, my guest reputation was in jeopardy. That made me reflect that honesty is actually very subjective. What is honesty, anyway?

Influenced by my lack of sleep, unbearable heat and humidity, dealing with my very sweet but very teenager-y daughter and my own demons, I went mad and wrote a long letter to Airbnb. They weren’t fast to respond, and I received the first response after I got home.  Finally, after getting enough rest, the degree of my drama softened and I wasn’t that mad anymore. But I felt a rush to fight for justice, for other people’s good experiences and to question ethics of the Airbnb business practices. 5 more messages later, I got a refund of $37 for a bad Wi–fi reception and suggestion to submit my further comments to the Airbnb feedback team. I felt ashamed for getting these $37 back – I was fighting for justice, for the well- being of humanity, not for humiliating materialism…

A day later, after coming back to the reality of work, my passion to fight in writing (there might be some more interesting things to write about) left my body and my soul. I also decided not to write a review for this stay… If I give him 2 stars, I thought, he’ll be sure to pay me back… and I’ll earn a reputation as the biggest complainer of the Airbnb world, which will ruin my perfect guest score. “Let it be”… I heard the Beatles sing in my head, ending my fight for the humanity or maybe my vanity.