Airbnb Review
My fiancée and I booked your cabin for a quick weekend getaway before the end of the year. We had just spent the previous four days celebrating the holidays with my parents. A week that flew by with a merry gust of gingerbread cake, financial lectures and general anxiety about domicile cleanliness. Needless to say, we were ready for our wintry respite.
At times it’s hard not to be skeptical about the advertisements you see on an Airbnb listing. Perfectly framed photographs that leave out just enough unpleasantry to mislead guests. This was a different kind of case, however.
With this cabin, pictures alone fail to accurately represent the experience we had. Therefore, in so many words, I shall attempt to describe our stay in full, vivid detail…
We drove in from Los Angeles and arrived at the cabin early thanks to our eagerness to see the town. The sunkissed air outside was crisp but warm like an apple pie and the nearby chimneys exhaled soft streams of wood-burning smoke.
The house rested on a foundation of stone pebbles and the walls were encrusted with brown, tree-bark clapboard. A quaint cacophony of textures and materials. Towering green pines and cerulean blue sky matted the background. I hardly had to squint my eyes to feel like I was standing in a Hanna-Barbera cartoon.
When we walked into the cabin, a feeling immediately struck me that this Airbnb was different than ones we’ve previously stayed in. I’m sure you’ve experienced this too. The unfortunate trend of homes being purchased and ripped of a soul, re-designed into hollow spaces with the empty aesthetic of trendy design and cheap materials.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that your home wasn't "staged" at all.
Every little detail was as intentionally curated as those you would find in someone's home of fifteen years. I have no specific details about the history of the cabin, but I like to imagine the home was built sometime in the 30-40s, refurbished in the 70s, and combed with the contemporary comfort of a modern sensibility. Midcentury cabinets encased 1920s literature. An ageless Persian rug laid on raw wooden flooring. It’s impossible for one to untangle the decades of decor.
The best part about the cabin, however, was undoubtedly the curated vinyl collection and majestic Marantz turntable - initially debuted in the mid-70s - with the perfect blend of silver and mahogany wood. The adjacent Marantz receiver glowed with a neon aquamarine, indicating the channels and sonic frequency with the midnight allure of a Harajuku jazz club.
On the floor below sat a milk crate filled to the brim with old albums. I could feel the generations of music under my fingertips. Music spanning from Dean Martin & Johnny Mathis to Jefferson Airplane & Mozart. In my experience, most rentals with a record player stock their “collection” with three or four generic greatest-hit classics. After listening to the albums from start to finish, it was evidently apparent that the owner of this collection was a true audiophile. A handcrafted auditory experience assembled for the lucky and willing guests who decide to partake.
The first record I listened to was a Greenwich village folk rendition of a 1930s Woody Guthrie union ballad covered by a 1970s Southern rock artist. The perfect metaphor for the generational layers of the timeless abode.
The vinyl infinitely spun in a perfectly smooth circle - like a wheel of clay - carefully carved by the symphonic, sparkling needle of the Marantz.
I drifted into deep thought about our drive up from the city. We drove in that morning on the I-10 east - a straight and endless freeway that lulled us into a hypnotic state of self-reflection. After long stretches of silence, we eventually debriefed on our time staying with my parents. The anxiety I felt as their son to fulfill their expectations of marriage, children, and home ownership, and the simmering layer of stress my fiancée felt because of it.
My fiancee and I are waiting a year to get married in order to tighten our budget and grow our savings to have the wedding we want. We’ve built a beautiful life together, along with our little black dog Charlie, but any threat of future change frightened us both. For the record, I don't know why I'm including this part in my review. I guess maybe it's an experience at least one of you can relate to.
At last we started our ascent up the base of the mountain. My fiancée struggles with severe motion sickness, so I slowed the car down to ease into the jagged switchbacks. As I lightly lifted my foot from the gas pedal, time felt temporarily suspended. Our car was gliding along the cliff edge with nothing but blue sky on the horizon, as weightless as the hovering hawks above. It’s the closest I’ve felt like flying in a long time…
The music stopped playing in the cabin but the static sounds of the speakers quietly droned on with the metronomic toll of a grandfather's clock. Admittedly, it was difficult to discern between the vinyl fuzz and the crackling of the wood fire. It's all I could hear aside from the ink of my pen scratching against this parchment paper.
We can hear so many small details when it's quiet. Hidden, microscopic instruments that slowly awaken like a peaceful morning in a remote French village.
The first sound I focus on is the single drop of water leaking from the kitchen faucet. It's faint, but I hear the full sonic spectrum of the drop. A refracting prism of notes gleaming in colorful sunshine. The radiator purrs with fuzzy sparkles of dust and muted cars pass by in the distance with the quiet charm of a miniature Christmas diorama.
The orchestral sounds of the cabin anchor me in the immediate present. A strange sensation one can only feel when all future and past concerns have completely vanished from thought.
I look over at my fiancee who lays still on the sofa. The curvature of her body is bathed in warm light from the afternoon sun, illuminating the tiny hairs of her black wool cardigan and the angelic halo of her cream blanket.
The sun drapes the couch with the artificial glow of Eighties daytime TV. The kind of light that moves a photographer to take out his camera. I try to be as silent as possible, but the mechanical shutter of my Yashica clicks under my index finger. My fiancee pretends to wake up, checking to make sure she's not holding up the day. When the coast is clear, she drifts back into a safe, peaceful sleep. She is an incredibly still person. So still that even the tiniest blip of irregularity can alarm her, the way our dog Charlie perks at the sound of the faintest bird.
Earlier this morning, she was worried about her paycheck.
I was at the kitchenette counter attempting to use a pour-over for the first time (the cabin comes equipped with one). There was a tin kettle with a long, watering spout, like a gardening can you can boil on a stove top.
"That’s weird,” My fiancée said with a concerned tone. She was sitting on the couch with Charlie.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, from behind the counter.
"My paycheck is $200 more than usual today,” she said.
The kettle on the stove had cooled and I began to lightly drizzle the steaming water across the coffee grinds. I watched closely as the water dissipated, turning the aromatic soil into tiny bubbles. This process is called “blooming,” according to the helpful Airbnb binder with easy-to-follow instructions.
"I wouldn't worry about it,” I said, concentrating on my pouring.
“I don’t like it. It’s weird.”
“Well you better call them and fix it,” I said, with an annoying hint of sarcasm.
My fiancee scrunched her face and stuck out her tongue. A small, plunky bird twittered outside in the distance - a welcome reminder that we were in nature.
Time seems to slow down and flatten in the cabin. I feel guilty for just sitting here doing nothing. I, among many, am a victim of the Microsoft Outlook generation. Those who live their lives one half-hour increment at a time. There is nothing more tranquil than ridding yourself of scheduling restraints. When your only interval of time is one side of a record and the changing temperature of your tea.
A flood of happiness enters my mind and crystalizes into confident daydreams of the perfect weekend ahead. Saturday will come. The weather app says it'll be cloudy. I can already picture the brilliantly white day…
We’ll begin the day with a delicious egg scramble using the cabin’s cast iron skillet, followed by a few rounds of Backgammon (the place comes with a board, 13 pieces and two pennies).
After a while my fiancée will nap. I’ll probably drift into a deep, contemplative state. Perhaps I’ll start to observe the assorted collection of classical paintings hanging on the walls around me. Directly above the couch there hangs a J.M.W. Turner countryside scene. I decide to stare at the painting for a while. I can’t remember the last time I stared at a painting. I’ll stare for a willful amount of time. The amount of time it takes for a painting to start magically drifting in and out of artifice and reality. The painted clouds begin to move, lightly bellowing from left to right, like the background plate of one of those four-dimensional planes used in old Disney animation. Only when I see the foggy tendrils of the incense smoke on the table next to me do I realize the illusory effect.
A cold shiver scurries across my skin. I look over at my fiancee, concerned she might be feeling cold too. But she is wrapped in a fleece blanket that traps her radiating warmth, tucked away into an afternoon nap.
I’ll return back to my reading. I brought with me a pocket-sized compilation book of 19th century Russian short stories that I picked up for three dollars at a Sunday flea market. Tolstoy. Dostoevsky. Chekhov. Literary masters in short form. I’ve always been intimidated by the Russian greats. But I was delighted to find it to be the kind of reading that hypnotizes until you forget that you’re even reading.
“I think I’ll head into town,” my fiancee will say, packing up her portable watercolors into her bag. “Maybe I’ll find more inspiration there. Want to come?”
I’ll hesitate for a moment, considering her question. On one hand, I feel guilty for letting her go into town without me. We had planned this weekend to spend time together, alone, in a charming mountain town. But on the other hand, I am so rapt with cerebral delight that my brain can’t seem focus on anything else.
“I think I might stay back and nap,” I’ll say.
“Ok.” She puts a leash onto Charlie. "We're bad at timing our naps," she’ll say, with a tinge of sadness.
The comment will feel significant, making me think for a second about its meaning. But before I know it, she’s out the door.
I’ll listen to a 70s South American folk cover of The Mamas and the Papas (a degree of separation from Mama Cass I feel comfortable with). I feel myself sink into the deep abyss of the sofa. My senses swell into an apex of creative nirvana. A Keatsean amount of inspiration dizzies my head and enriches my heart. The kind of mindful and bodily ecstasy that feels too good to be true.
It’s not until the third or fourth ring when I finally feel the vibrations of my phone. It’s my fiancée trying to reach me. I’ll try to call her back, assuming she’s asking when I’ll be joining her in town. But my service keeps dropping. I finally try texting her. After a few moments, I’ll receive a reply:
I fell.
My heart stops. I begin to panic. Before I even realize it, I’m halfway out the door with my jacket flying off of one arm. I race through the muted grey forest as fast as I can.
“This can’t be happening,” I think to myself.
My mind keeps processing the situation, playing it over and over again, like that episode of television I’ve seen so many times. My eyes are pushed to the brink of tears. I start to panic.
“What if I'm not able to save her?” I think.
I try texting her again.
Where are you?
Are you ok?
I’m coming.
I see her typing bubbles appear and disappear, as if the strength to answer me suddenly escaped her. I remember she mentioned a small path alongside the creek behind our cabin. Surely she fell along this route.
Rushing through the forest I try calling her again. As I turn a bend, I hear her voice.
“Over here!” she cries.
I fall to her side and inspect the damage. Thankfully my worst fear is only a figment of my imagination. She lays on the ground with a sprained ankle, both shoes on and clothing in tact. She is crying.
"I'm sorry," she says.
"Why are you sorry? This wasn't your fault.”
"I ruined our trip," she sobs, with the guilt of a small child.
I see a younger version of my fiancee. Much younger. Vulnerable, scared, and lightly weeping. My heart fills with an impossible amount of love and I hug her close to my chest.
“Nothing could ruin this trip," I say.
We'll sit there holding each other, in no hurry to get up, soaking in the music of the forest. I’d been so blinded by fear that I failed to notice the storybook scenery around us. The babbling brook by our side shimmers with gleaming reflections of the sky, like a thread of white satin unspooling down the wooded hill.
Eventually we’ll happily limp our way into town. Every building in Idlewild looks like a vintage gingerbread house adorned with big, bulbous Christmas lights like the ones Charlie Brown used. There are new buildings too. High end "vintage" clothing stores and posh Pilates studios. I’ll feel sad about the changing town. But I guess change, and by definition, all change, is natural.
We’ll check out cute shops, trying warm sweaters and soft donuts. Laughing to each other with sighs of happiness and relief, holding hands tightly as if to never let go again...
I'm jerked back to consciousness by the loud fall of a charred log, reminding me that life still lingers in the fire. It is close to night now as I slowly sip on my glass of silky eggnog stirred in a cheeky nip of bourbon. I can feel the warm alcohol dancing through all my veins.
The floor-mounted JBL speakers belt out the bruised, bellowing baritone soul of Roberta Flack. I close my eyes as orange from the tungsten lamps metastasizes with the blackness of my eyelids, mixing a cerebral cocktail of amber melancholy. The fire pops and crackles - like remnant mist of faraway fireworks in the midnight sky.
"I wish our stay doesn't have to end," she says.
I think about this for a moment. To me, it doesn’t feel like our vacation will end, much like one doesn't “turn off” a wood-burning fire. My time here was fading like the infinitesimal, sloping curve of a parabola, hovering above zero but never reaching it. Like dying embers in the fireplace soot, warmly lingering in the distant recesses of my mind.
Five stars, would book again.