I’m behind on writing this week. The past 7 days I’ve been working and playing in the great state of Colorado. It was a fantastic week in the 38th state. I drove on empty roads and looked down scary mountains. You learn a lot about yourself when you’re taking selfies 6000 feet in the air. Especially as everyone else is taking insane engagement photos.
My first four nights in Colorado I stayed at a wonderfully sexy hotel in downtown Denver. The hotel was sexy for many reasons: the fruit-infused water in the lobby, the alcove window in my room, the multiple shower heads, and of course, the endless supply of stiff, fresh towels.
Every moment I spent in this room was a moment I wished someone knocked on my door with an intent to deliver room service and a good bang.
My last three nights were spent somewhere less room servicey, more ‘please take your shoes off upon entering the housey.’ My Airbnb in Fort Collins had two fresh towels that had seen an unheard level of fabric softener. It had one closet I could use, one closet I couldn’t, a single shower head, oh! And it had Mike. My Airbnb host.
Don’t worry, I didn’t fuck Mike. I didn’t fuck anyone in my little Fort Collins room. And I didn’t want to fuck anyone. My perfectly cool, 69 degreed, semi-swanky hotel may have had me hot and bothered but my never exactly the right temperature, semi-second-rate BNB had me feeling something else. With every hotel and Airbnb experience I have, it becomes clearer and clearer to me: Airbnbs aren’t for fucking. Airbnb’s are for making love.
Hotels represent my fantasy of adulthood. When I stay at a hotel, I am playing the ultimate adult version of ‘pretend’. It’s a safe place for my ridiculous, over-the-top inner psyche to play. This rare version of myself doesn't come out often, so when she does, she is ready to POUNCE. But all that disappears when I stay at an Airbnb. Because if hotels are the fantasy, Airbnb’s are the reality.
You don’t have the same anonymity at an Airbnb that you do at a hotel. You don’t just put in your credit card information, you tell your host about yourself. What is bringing you to their neck of the woods? There’s rules and little notes and constant reminders that you’re immersed in someone’s actual life. My god, you know what their handwriting looks like!
When you stay at a hotel you dial ‘0’ and a stranger brings you food. At an Airbnb, Mike recommends restaurants for you to explore. At your hotel, you’re given nice glasses for beverages. At an Airbnb, you find a ‘#1 Son’ mug in the cabinet. At a hotel, your room is magically cleaned. At an Airbnb, you get a text telling you where the extra paper towels are. A hotel treats you like a one night stand, an Airbnb wants to meet your parents. It’s kind of...romantic.
One of the best things about love (romantic, friendly, or otherwise) is the joy I get from doing something special for that person. Suddenly I want to paint them a picture or buy a dumb shirt I know would look good on them or send along a song I know they’d like. Some people get a funny feeling in their stomachs when they are falling in love, I get the urge to scrapbook. The touches in an Airbnb elicit that same feeling. They are curated by a real person, not a corporation. In 2015, when I stepped into my Airbnb in Nashville and saw Johnny Cash ready-to-go on the record player, my heart melted. Suddenly I was on a honeymoon.
I love traveling which means I love hotels and I love Airbnbs. Both accommodations represent some sort of adventure. But if someone’s going to, for lack of better words, fuck the shit out of me, I want that to be in a place where it’s ok to leave behind a mess. Where I don’t have to worry about a bad review or lack of stars or disappointing Mike. After all, he did let me use his Keurig.