Note: All names have been changed to an alias for the sake of privacy
I woke up to the sound of singing. Hers was a hefty, voluminous voice that edged the highest notes before tumbling down to its comfortable alto state. By the end of my stay, I had heard her voice attempt Broadway and opera, prayer and hymns. She was not bothered by time or company, for she performed while the curtains still blocked nothing but darkness, and rested only when nobody was home to listen.
Alice had been renting out her spare bedroom to Airbnb guests for the past six years. She was a freelance actress with a lust for complaining and described herself as a “young 42.” When scrolling through Airbnb in search of a two-week residence, hers was an obvious choice. Her complex was in a pristine location, touching the edge of the beach, and was only a short bus ride to work. Plus, I was eager to befriend a proper guardian-esque figure for some period of my time abroad. Sadly, she did not deliver.
I refuse to post my grievances on the Airbnb site, as I know Alice makes most of her income as a host, and I am not malicious. So instead, I will write this here to highlight the less glamorous parts of continent hopping.
By the end of my stay, I had effectively earned a one-star review as an Airbnb customer. Alice’s sole complaint was that my “friend was at the apartment a lot of the time.” Other than that, she described me as friendly, nice and (surprisingly) clean. But this “friend” issue cannot be overlooked. For one, it was my girlfriend, and she knows it — I only corrected her every single time. Calling someone’s partner their friend in reference to a queer relationship is a homophobic microaggression. Secondly, Alice had an extensive list of rules for her guests — prohibiting friends or partners in the apartment was not on that list.
Just as she wrote me some suggestions for how I can better communicate my desire to invite friends/partners over in the future, I will write her a suggestion for how she can handle this situation: Clearly state that your guests are not permitted to have any company during their stays.
But aside from the homophobia, the complaining and the all-too-frequent reminders to squeegee the shower door after use, Alice was quite pleasant. She told me what it was like growing up in England and confided in me about her career as a freelance actress who does primarily commercial work. Her latest gig was playing the “after” in a weight-loss commercial.
A few weeks after my stay, I ran into Alice again. I was at a park that overlooked the sea, watching the sun fall. My friends and I had just unpacked a spread of fine cheddar cheese and date jam and began to lay everything out on the grass. As I took my first bite, I spotted her dusty red hair in the distance. I called her name and waved her over. “Your necklace is still in my mailbox. I keep waiting for someone to steal it.” That was the first thing she said to me. Her hostile grin and subtle snarkiness was alive as ever.
***
I sat down on the edge of the couch, silently praying that he was well-intentioned. Yaron hadn’t spoken a word to me after confirming that I was, in fact, the girl coming to move into his apartment. My discomfort polluted the air so heavily that it wasn’t until after he had left that I noticed what an absolute mess the apartment was.
Dust caked the counters. Stained cups were strewn lazily about and dishes were piled around the sink, resting under a swarm of flies. The sink itself was yellow, streaked with brown stains and rust. I was horrified. There was a toenail clipper on the nightstand and stray hairs sprinkling the sink. But worst of all was the smell. It reeked of burnt plastic and cigarette butts. After failed remedies of open windows and air freshener, I was convinced that the stench was rooted deep into the furniture.
Upon his requested return, Yaron claimed that he had spent hours cleaning the apartment and that it couldn’t possibly get any cleaner. In response, I took a dry paper towel, slid it across the counter, and held up the newly-blackened sheet. I’m not the neatest resident myself, but there’s a gaping difference between unorganized and this apartment. Yet, I remained polite and willing to compromise. After a half-hearted attempt to clean, he left. I stuffed his dirty dishes in the cabinets and vowed never to open them again.
That whole time I was so distracted by the countertops and smell that I failed to look down. When I did, I screamed. Ants swarmed the tile floors. They marched in processions, split off into groups and then joined together again, all in the middle of the kitchen. I jumped onto the couch in terror.
After another reluctant return, Yaron claimed that he didn’t see any ants. When I pointed out the pile, he said, “Maybe there’s one ant.” I was baffled — never had I been gaslit in such a weird context.
“There are like 30 ants,” I said while marching up and down, scratching my legs frantically in hopes that none of the ants would crawl on me. My breaths grew shallow as I tried to convince him of all the bugs that were very clearly crawling on the floor. I began to hyperventilate. I climbed onto the kitchen chair and continued my march from above.
“We are one with the ants. You can’t expect to live in an apartment and not see an ant or two.”
“I’ve lived in plenty of apartments at this point and never have I seen an infestation like this,” I said. “This is not just one or two.”
He shrugged. He wore a coffee-brown T-shirt, stained khaki pants and worn-in gym sneakers. I watched him shuffle quietly across the room, head down, eyes glued to the floor as he walked. When he spoke, his words fluttered and dipped in a soft, shallow rhythm. Even as he gaslit me, his voice radiated peace, as if he were leading a group mediation.
I imagine Yaron spent most of his youth camping and his young adult years backpacking — the whole “one with the ants” comment and his respect for utter filth paired nicely with an outdoor persona.
I could appreciate his love for nature; I too, have a fondness for wildlife and fresh air. But when the grittiest bits of it invite themselves into my home, that’s where I draw the line.
Yaron agreed to pay for an exterminator, granted I make the arrangements. I braved that first night sleeping on the couch with the ants — most of them were coming from the bedroom, so I just locked that door up. The next morning, the exterminator arrived. I’ve been living there for a month now, and I haven’t seen a single ant since.
The cleaning didn’t go as smoothly. For the first week or so, I did as much as I could, taking the Swiffer out of hibernation and running through rolls of grimy paper towels. Then, my friend got sick all over the once ant-riddled floors of my apartment. At that point, the cleaning service was no longer an item of procrastination.
***
“That’s a lot of suitcases.” Laylah stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at us. “This isn’t a hotel.”
As an old friend of my girlfriend’s and potential new friend to me, this was not the warm welcome Sari and I were expecting. I had never met this person before, yet she graciously agreed to host us for the next few days while we traveled. Now, I realize this grace may have been a mask for reluctant obligation.
Laylah’s feet were firmly planted; she took not a single step towards us. Deeply uncomfortable and longing for rest after 10 hours of travel, I stood there wide-eyed, suitcases in hand. There was a brief moment of silence. We lugged the awkward tension and our many bags up the staircase to the second floor. I was thankful for the thumps my suitcases made as they hit each stair and drowned out the deafening quiet.
“The apartment is really small,” Laylah waited with her hand on the doorknob, bracing us for what we might find on the other side. “Like, really small. I don’t think we’re all going to fit.” Her voice was accusatory and sharp, accompanied by pursed lips. Slowly, she squeaked open the door.
The place was average — the kitchen snaked back behind the living room, which was wide enough for a dining table and a full-sized couch. “You guys can either sleep in sleeping bags or on an air mattress,” Laylah said. “The air mattress has a hole in it, though.” She pointed to a stained sheet on the living room floor.
We could have slept in the bathtub for all I cared — I just wanted to get out of there. I despise being where I’m not wanted. In an effort to discuss the situation privately, I suggested that Sari and I go get some dinner. It didn’t take long to realize that few eateries were open past 9:30 p.m. in that residential neighborhood. A pizza place informed us of their closing in 10 minutes, but thankfully offered to serve us anyway, should we take the food to go.
We ended up eating our pizza pie and Caesar salad wolfishly on a nearby bench, for there were no utensils or napkins and we felt we had bothered the staff enough by placing a desperate order right before close. Pizza box and salad container on our laps, we dug ferociously into the melted cheese, letting the sauce stain our chins and the crust cut our lips. The lettuce was still in its full form, uncut and crunchy. We took each leaf and dipped it into the creamy dressing as if it were a chip. It took us less than 10 minutes to find the bottom of the container. Shirts dotted with crumbs and hands sticky with red sauce, we sat on the bench grinning, shameless and satisfied.
Over this sophisticated dinner, we scrolled through Airbnb and sent out some embarrassingly frantic booking requests. To our relief, a cheap studio was available for immediate entry.
***
I’ve been abroad since May 5 and, in that time, I have lived in six different apartments. My travels were not defined by my living conditions, but have certainly been made more dynamic because of them. Especially in the internet age, the realities of traveling on a budget are so often concealed. I certainly didn’t inform my friends, family and acquaintances of my grievances and inconveniences — all they saw was pictures of sunsets and sand. But such transparency can help combat the glamorization of travel, and reveal its realistic, often gritty, elements. However frustrating they were in the moment, I have undeniably collected some stories to tell, and for that, I am grateful.
Yesterday I moved into my last apartment of the summer. I’ll be living with four girls my age, sleeping on clean white sheets, and walking smoothly on a bug-free floor. I’m looking forward to a relaxing last month of travels in an apartment that will be easy to call home.
Statement Correspondent Talia Belowich can be reached at taliabel@umich.edu