A Cold Night in Brooklyn

Travel is what energizes me. Nothing gives me a boost like discovering the local scene, connecting with people and finding a destination with beautiful views. Standing on high, looking down on a new vista, adds an extra thrill to the experience. Seeing life and nature unfold from a bird’s eye view feeds my soul.

When I discover a place where the city lights or the jagged terrain of earth greet me with the morning sun, I must go there. Airbnb offers this up to me on the regular, affording experiences I wouldn’t find on the tourist side of town. Until now, I never considered the risks that come with my particular wanderlust.

I arrived on a deceptively sunny afternoon in late March. Stepping off the bus at 33rd & 11th, I immediately became aware of the space where my pants legs end and my shoes begin. Barely a couple of inches, yet my ankles shivered as the arctic wind ripped off the Hudson River and in between buildings. New York can be a cold city. I was up from Baltimore for a few days on business in Brooklyn. Zipping my coat and coiling my scarf tight, I kept it moving.

My first stop, the indulgent Airbnb I’d booked. The listing indulged all my fantasies. High above ground level, it boasted floor to ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan’s skyscrapers and the  water views synonymous with Brooklyn. The building featured an incredibly hip lobby, appearing both expensive and chic. I said yes to all of that. I wanted to gaze out at something, to feel both bigger and smaller than who I was. This place of solitude would play an oversized role in my trip.

With my request to book, I included a couple short sentences introducing myself as a graphic designer traveling for business. The host was Michelle, an African American woman appearing in her late 30's. A fellow business owner, her cropped photo captured a warm and inviting smile. My note expressed my elation at the chance to stay in such an amazing space. She wrote back immediately, excited to host me, and all felt right with my world.

The brisk walk to the subway station and my thin scarf did little to avert the chill.  As I descended the stairs to the 7 train, I felt a jolt of unease. Did I hear back from Michelle with check in instructions? That was the standard procedure I knew after four years of Airbnb’ing. I pulled out my phone to check my last message to Michelle a couple days before. There was no response.

The train lurched along toward Jay Street, I began to thaw from the wind. I pulled up the Airbnb booking receipt on my phone. It seemed that for my arrival, the keys would be at the concierge waiting for me. This was a relatively typical procedure, so I dismissed my worries about the no reply. Sometimes, those of us in business get unexpectedly busy; plenty of times I’ve let a day slip by without returning an email or text. It happens.... right?

I turned my mind to visions of gazing out at that floor to ceiling view. Exiting onto Jay Street, I happily followed my GPS to Michelle’s swank building. Instead it led me to the campus building for a Brooklyn school. Well I know I'm not staying in a college dorm, I thought. Strange. Maybe I put in the wrong address or my GPS got the drop point incorrect. Who doesn’t have a crazy story of their GPS leading them somewhere they weren’t trying to go and didn’t want to be?

I needed to get out of the cold and off the crowded sidewalk to correct my mistake, so I ducked into a little local grocery store across the street. In between the bell peppers and the mixed nuts I took a closer look at the Airbnb confirmation details and the address. There was no mistake that the address for this listing was the address for the school. I scrolled further on my phone to the description of the neighborhood. It described the building as having a local grocery store on the first level and an attached parking garage next to the lobby entry. Looking around, that description matched the very spot I was standing. Am I still in the right place, even with the wrong address? I walked out of the grocery store and surveyed the street once more, finding a small doorway entrance in between the store and the parking garage. Walking in, I was square in the lobby of the apartment building from the listing. With a sigh of relief, I had this mystery solved and I was home.

Confidence restored, I marched up to the concierge, carry bag in tow, where two men in front desk uniforms were having a debate about how real one should be on their first date.

“I’m just sayin,” one turns to me, continuing the conversation, “I’m at an age where I don’t do games or I don’t want to waste time. So I want a lady to know up front what I’m about and what I’m trying to do. Do you agree?” he asked me.

“Uh, yeah absolutely,” I said, “I don’t like games.” I rolled on without missing a beat.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ bout,” he says before moving into his more formal greeting. “Good afternoon, my name is David. How can I help you?”

“My name is Jessica and I’m checking in. I have an Airbnb for the next two nights.”

“Oh okay,” he said instinctively, and as if second nature, he opened a side drawer with a couple papers and key fobs. He pulls out one and looks at it confused. “Wait, what’s your name?”

“Jessica, Watson” I say.

“We don’t have keys for you here.” he said.

A look of dread fell across my face. I frantically reach for my phone again while standing at the front counter, again pulling up the booking confirmation to figure out what I was missing.

“I am in the right place,” I responded, feigning confidence. This is the only apartment building on the block and it matches the description. It has to be the right place.

“Okay,” he says and he goes over to his computer. “What’s the host’s first name?”

“Michelle,” I responded.

“And her last name?” he asked.

“.....”

Her last name, whatever it was, was nowhere to be found on my receipt or on her host page. How could I have missed that? “I don’t know….” I said, puzzled.

David looked up at me. “Do you have a phone number? Maybe you can call her and we can get this sorted out.”

I agreed and walked away from the concierge desk to take a seat in the lobby. I dial her number from the Airbnb app. It goes straight to voicemail, no custom greeting or recorded human voice to ease my fears regarding how many different ways this scenario could play out. Was Michelle a real person? Had I been duped? I scrolled through the photos and the description of the place, along with the one message I had received from her expressing her excitement over hosting me. Everything looked legitimate. Where are you Michelle? How come you’re not answering your phone?

I felt those floor to ceiling windows with breathtaking views slowly start to move beyond my grasp. I didn’t feel desperate yet, just frustrated… at this process and this moment, and at myself for not recognizing sooner how important it was for me to get that response from her regarding check in. And yet I still had hope that maybe this was just some strange misunderstanding, that there was a way to resolve it and I would soon be in my room looking out those windows.

I searched for an Airbnb customer support number, information not readily accessible on their website. After a fifteen minute wait, I was connected with a fellow human being. I explained the situation of not being able to get in touch with my host, and how the concierge did not have keys for me for this rental. The woman on the other line offered a solution that provided me little comfort.

“Well,” she said, “we can call her on your behalf, and if she doesn’t respond in 30 minutes, we can cancel the reservation and help you find another room nearby.” At this moment I’m grateful to be inside a temperature controlled building, with a concierge staff that doesn’t seem to mind my temporary displacement in their space. What if I were stuck outside, in unfamiliar territory, exposed to the dropping temperatures as the sun made its way to closing time? What if I had been somewhere where I did not feel safe, my only refuge the room I could not enter? I didn’t understand how an Airbnb representative calling Michelle would be any different than me calling her. But alas, I obliged, and before hanging up, I requested Michelle’s last name to see if the concierge could find her in their system.

“Michelle Parks” I said to the dynamic duo behind the desk. David, sensing my desperation and eager to help, logged back into his computer screen and put in her full name.

“We don’t have a resident here by that name,” he said. My facial expression changed as I tried to conceal the dread that came with yet another card not stacked in my favor. As we engaged in our detective work, he took breaks to smile and greet each resident who entered through the lobby by first name. There were dogs he knew that rushed up to him tail wagging, and there was a little girl who brought him peanut M&M’s, his favorite. So when David says he doesn’t know anyone by the name of Michelle Parks living in his building, I wholeheartedly believe him. Moreso, for the first time in this venture, I consider that I may be in more trouble than I think.

While we wait for Airbnb to call me back and deliver the verdict, I share the listing with David and he agrees that the pictures do represent the style and view from the apartments in the building. But, it’s a 900+ unit building, so there is no way to know which one. I take it one step further and I show David the profile photo of Michelle. His eyes light up.

“OOOH! I think I know who that is,” he exclaims, “but her name is not Michelle.”

What game was I playing here? I no longer knew. While they searched their system for the contact information of “Not Michelle,” Airbnb called to let me know they could not get a hold of Michelle. I was not surprised. They offered to cancel the reservation on my behalf, providing me with a full refund, and to help me to find another room nearby. But at this time it is approaching 6PM, and as I do a quick search on their website, I find very little vacancies of appeal. Goodbye beautiful view.

The help of booking a room would involve more waiting for hosts to confirm their space is really available and more of the customer service rep playing intermediary on my behalf. At this point it’s been a little over 2 hours that I’ve been displaced. Could I withstand more standstill and uncertainty? With daylight fading fast and the cold night that awaited, I decided I could not. Defeated, I asked her to cancel the reservation, but that I would not need the aid for rebooking. I instead turned to my emergency app, Hotel Tonight, and found a hotel that was even closer to my client’s office. Within the span of 2 minutes, I had a hassle free experience of booking a room, and I knew beyond a shadow of doubt that this room would be available and waiting for me. I knew that when I entered that building, they would know who I was. I bid farewell to David and thanked him for letting me post up with my things in his lobby.

“It’s no problem,” he said. “There’s no way I would’ve kicked you out. It sounds like a shady situation and I really don’t like it when people do this to other people.”

And off I went into the fading light.

Airbnb started out as a sense of community while traveling for me. And as woman who often travels alone, it’s nice to have someone expecting my arrival, whom I’ve already chatted with; who has already told me where the best coffee house is and where I absolutely have to go for dinner while I’m in town. It has revolutionized the travel industry with easy booking, dynamic photos, and desireable access to local neighborhoods where there simply aren’t a lot of hotels. It also offers a level of safety, with reviews and verified identities, which is really important to me. In my years of travel through their service, I have met some amazing hosts, many who I’ve sat down with for coffee, tea, cocktails or the occasional meal. But it’s been a long time since I’ve shared anything beyond the check-in information with a host, and I wonder if the system is changing.

As I have learned from this experience, there are also personal consequences when engaging with this shared economy. Again being a solo traveler, should I end up being in a sticky situation with my rental, not having an immediate solution concerns me. Any online search will reveal a number of rentals gone wrong, as told from both the host and the renter. While not all of my experiences have been perfect, none had left me without a place to stay and disappearing host... until this one. Because the reservation was cancelled, I have no way to leave a review or at the very least express concern for the next traveler. The final message I left to Michelle, explaining the situation and why I had to cancel, still goes unanswered. And I suppose, given the track record from that fateful day, I should not be surprised.

Will I still use Airbnb as a source of travel? Yes, it offers a unique way to experience the world that really resonates with my lifestyle for work and play. Will I be more careful and on top of things like host communication, and also be open minded to considering alternative means for lodging? Absolutely.