There was a time when Airbnb was a way to find, quite literally, an air mattress for hire; now, years since its 2008 launch, you can find palatial apartments, houses and even castles to rent while travelling.
Consequently, as Airbnb has moved from its humble days as an early frontrunner in the sharing economy to becoming a travel behemoth, a certain “Airbnb culture” has emerged. You can see it in the images that the company uses to promote itself, and in the tone of the photographs that Airbnb Hosts use to illustrate their properties: “AirB” properties occupy a very particular vibe.
So, if you are concerned that after a few stints on roll-out beds and in loft rooms, a sense of deja vu has begun to settle in, fear not: you are not alone. Here is a handy guide to recognising that you are, indeed, inside an Airbnb property.
Ninety-nine per cent of the time, Airbnbs are tastefully decorated. But they are also, in all but a few cases, somebody’s sometime-home, which means that they still live in fear that Aunty Frieda will drop around and be heartbroken that the framed woodcut of a naked woman riding a 747 into a rainbow that she gave you for Christmas in 1998 isn’t hanging on the wall. This means that your enduring memory of your trip to London/Lisbon/Los Angeles will be staring into the eyes of said naked woman riding a 747 into a rainbow.
Perhaps we are spoiled in Australia, but one of the inevitabilities of the Airbnb lifestyle seems to be that the shower needs to be as complicated as possible. On a recent trip to Los Angeles, it took me a good 10 minutes trying to wrap my brain around the two-headed Hydra of a shower at my Los Feliz crash pad, which involved, variously, searingly hot pulses and pin-like jets of cold. Defeated, I decided to draw back the curtain that hid the separate bathtub, only to find the bath full of spare rolls of toilet paper. In the end I just got in the pool.
Photo: Stocksy
One area in which Airbnb hosts rarely lie is in the comfortableness of the bed: I can report that I have fallen deeply in love with every bed I have slept on through my Airbnb travels, to the point that the formerly blissful experience of returning home to My Bed is now a hollow falsehood as I lie awake and dreaming of that one, brief, shining moment with the California king/memory foam/pillow-topped/no-right-to-be-as-comfortable-as-it-was fold-out bed.
Cactuses and their various succulent relatives are the ultimate indoor plant for Airbnb properties, because they can survive the gross negligence inherent in their owners always being away; they have the added bonus of making the space look like Instagram-ready. Many’s the time I have stood in my Airbnb room and wondered if I should, in fact, water the indoor plants before deciding it wasn’t my job and wandering off to see the sights. If succulents ever achieve self-awareness then I’m certain I’ll be first against the wall when the pot-plant revolution comes.
Photo: Stocksy
Look, I get it: lots and lots of throw pillows can make any bed, even the most basic roll-out, appear not just welcoming but downright luxurious. When you’re attempting to actually go to bed, however, and have to spend five minutes removing pillows as though you were trying to dig through a soft and cuddly mine collapse, things start to feel mildly farcical.
Perhaps it’s just my own bad luck, but every single Airbnb property I have stayed in – from spare rooms to entire apartments – has come blessed with the sound of an adjoining neighbour “enjoying life”, by which I mean “having loud and athletic sex”. No amount of hopeful and slightly passive aggressive “I’m in my room” shuffling and picking up and putting down of bags can ever hope to quell the neighbours’ activities, so you may as well just lie back and think of England. Or at least the review you’re going to leave.
Photo: Stocksy
A hallmark of the Airbnb rental, from private rooms through to entire houses, is the abbreviated book collection. It’s difficult to ascertain why bookshelves in Airbnb properties are semi-empty, but it probably has something to do with the universal fear that a house guest will leave a cup of coffee on the cover of your favourite tome. Consequently, Airbnb rentals feature some truly baffling libraries: in one property I stayed in, this meant a book about the Stanislavsky method, a copy of a screenplay, and a single Ghostbusters trading card; in another, it was an out-of-date London visitors’ guide and Harry Potter.
If you are lucky enough to book a private room in an existing sharehouse, you can look forward to at least one alarming experience in which a roommate who missed the text message or email about the impending Airbnb guest mistakes you for an intruder.
Photo: Stocksy
So you booked a room/apartment that “sleeps 3”, only to arrive to find a double bed, and a small daybed couch inevitably dressed with some colourful throws and a “fun” cushion: congratulations, two of you are sharing the double bed, and one of you will be laid out on the daybed until your back spasms and you end up like Elaine from Seinfeld yelling “STELLA!” at dinner. Daybeds are the great lie of our time.
There is a horrific intimacy inherent in the Sharing Economy that few of us like to admit, to wit, you are STAYING IN SOMEBODY ELSE’S ROOM. This is especially spooky when the host is absent (usually staying at a friend’s) and you have to let yourself in via a complex process of hidden keys and text messaged security codes. It is then that you will inevitably discover, among the carefully chosen Urban Outfitters-esque accoutrements, a dusty photo of two people in love, and you suddenly crumble into paranoia. Which one is the host? Who are these people? Did they install a hidden camera in the potted succulent?
Photo: Stocksy