Optimist vs Airbnb management
Lessons learned: always photograph the towels, never trust the cancellation policy, and be sure to bring your own bleach.
“Look at this stain,” Lydia, the property manager, said.
She was pointing at a faint patch of mud on the white bedsheet I’d washed a week previously. My husband and I had already moved out of the Airbnb, but the cleaner had been unable to find the towels and linen I’d washed, folded, and carefully placed back in the cupboard. So here I was, back in the short-term rental, under threat of being charged with theft.
The linen had been located, but that didn’t spare me the humiliation of watching Lydia point out every imperfection on the only bedsheet we’d been provided for our five-month stay. (Yes, we washed it. Apparently not enough for Lydia’s liking.)
“I mean—they’re white sheets,” I offered weakly. “They just need to be bleached.”
“I’ve already bought new ones!” she snapped. “We’ve got new guests arriving tomorrow!”
This was, in fact, the most infuriating thing she could have said, considering her management company had refused to let us change our move-out dates—and we were still on the hook for paying an entire extra month, even though we were no longer living in the house.
A peppy Airbnb customer service representative had previously assured me we wouldn’t be charged for cancelling early. Naturally, the moment I did, several thousand dollars was magically billed to my credit card.
Three excruciating phone calls later, Airbnb offered a partial refund—and then insisted we were still responsible for the full amount, without ever acknowledging they had told us otherwise.
(This is how I learned that if you use the word "fuck-up" during an Airbnb customer service call, you will be sternly reprimanded for “profanity.”)
OK, back to my personal nightmare.
“And you found the white towels?” I asked Lydia.
“Yes,” she replied curtly. “They were in the bathroom cupboard. They were in OK condition.”
“That’s where they always were!” I exclaimed. “We never even used them!”
I wanted to scream. Instead, I watched as Lydia picked up another large blanket—one we’d never even touched, but that I’d washed anyway, so desperate was I to leave the house in good condition. I've been burned by Airbnb hosts before.
Unfortunately for me, the blanket had come out of the machine with a strange stain on it.
Lydia pointed at it accusingly. “And what happened here?”
“I honestly don’t know! It came out of the machine like that!” Even I knew this sounded like a lie, but it was the truth—and there was nothing else to say.
“It’s unusable,” Lydia said. “I have to throw it away.”
She was shaking her head, clearly very disappointed in me. I could already imagine the awful review I was going to get.
“Fine,” I sighed. “I’ll pay for the sheets.”
There’s No Such Thing as a Friendly Host
When we first decided to live in Airbnbs while searching for a new home, I imagined myself trying on pretend lives. Sunset drinks on the balcony of a Spanish bungalow in Glassell Park. Walking my dogs through the charming streets of Eagle Rock. And while I did get to do these things, they came at a cost: I never truly felt at home.
I should have known better. Last year, on a holiday stay, I’d already glimpsed the petty side of Airbnb hospitality.
At that particular rental, the host had left a laminated booklet of rules on the coffee table—far too long to be read during a single night's stay.
“Please treat my home as your own,” the instructions said.
But what they really meant was: “Please leave no trace you were ever here (or else).”
That host charged me a $50 fine for leaving eight minutes late. Ironically, I probably would have left on time if I hadn’t returned to reread the laminated instruction tome’s checkout policy.
People Pleaser vs. Property Manager
At heart, I'm a people pleaser. Which is probably why staying in Airbnbs pushes me almost to breaking point. Nothing prepares you for the experience of standing in a stranger’s living room, attempting to defend your honour over a suspiciously stained blanket.
Towels we hadn’t touched? Accused of stealing them.
Sheets I’d carefully washed? Deemed unacceptable.
I felt like I was back at school, being scolded by a teacher — only this time, there was a credit card bill attached to the shame. The injustice of it boiled my blood.
Rules Are Optional, Apparently
Though Airbnb’s policies are carefully laid out on their website, in practice, they're more like suggestions.
"Your host didn’t agree with changing your dates," I was told, over and over.
"I wasn't aware the cancellation policy was at their discretion," I answered, but my outrage was met with polite indifference.
I felt like I was shouting into a void. (A very polite void that kept assuring me it understood my displeasure, while still charging me thousands of dollars.)
In fact, Airbnb’s refund policy is simple: If you’re unhappy, please scream into a pillow.
Life Lessons (Which Are Useless, Since I’m Never Staying in an Airbnb Again)
Take photos of everything when you check in (and when you leave).
"Fully stocked kitchen" = weird old cutlery, one tiny colander, and absolutely no baking tray.
"Midcentury decor" = super cute in photos, supremely uncomfortable in real life.
Cancellation policies are aspirational.
Living without a home base slowly wears you down.
It’s OK to want roots. It’s OK to want stability. It’s OK to get a few stains on your white sheets.
Home at Last
Last week, we finally moved into our own place, and if I hadn’t been in a state of shock, I would’ve cried.
No more arguments with property managers.
No more customer service calls.
No more standing in someone else's house, begging them to believe I wasn’t a used towel thief.
And on the first night, I did the only logical thing:
I put on my own linen sheets, fresh from their eight-month hibernation.
And yes—I washed them thoroughly first.
Yeah, Airbnb has slowly become a turnoff. I quickly learned the pictures on the website can look way better than real life. And in Atlanta, hosts were renting all the bedrooms to different people! Like, isn't there some county code against that? I'm glad you've moved into your own place. Congratulations!
Love this, Emma! ☺️