The inns and outs of sleeping on the cheap
I've had mixed experiences in the 15 or so AirBnB and hostel choices I've made over the past three months, but it's all part of the adventure.
I’ve been on the road a little over 15 weeks now and have stayed in just about an equal number of different accommodations. The experiences are equally mixed, ranging from “I can’t believe what a great place this is” to “I can’t wait to get out of here. Maybe I should just leave now.”
I’m writing this from a hostel in Marrakech that I’ll be calling home until just after Christmas. I’m happy with that choice, it turns out. The staff are great and the eclectic mix of residents are a friendly crowd that changes composition at least a little every day. (Some stay just one night, others can be here for months.) There are Moroccans, Americans, Dutch, Danes, French, Portuguese, Italians, Belgians, Germans, Algerians, Argentinians, Scotts, Brazilians, Brexiters, and even an Estonian (where’s that??) for one night (hey Olga!). The hostel is in a riad, which means it’s a style of building where there are no windows looking out but where the rooms surround a central courtyard that’s open to the stars. Its walls are all brightly coloured tiles and mosaics that, like most riads, are in huge contrast to the drab and often uniform look of the building as seen from the outside.
I have learned to think of the vast maze of riads—which can house private homes, shops, restaurants and even bars—as a kind of Kinder Surprise: you never know what you’re going to get until you crack open that front door.
The same holds true for many accommodations when you’re travelling, of course. That’s the reason why the hotel chains work so hard at making sure that when you first wake up, you’re never quite sure if you just woke up in the Marriott Milwaukee or Waikiki. But the price of predictability is often banality. If familiarity breeds contempt, then chain hotels export it in exponential quantities.
Hotels of any type were never a part of my plans for this excursion anyway. I’d blow my nine-month budget in nine days. So my options basically boiled down to AirBnB, hostels, and begging people to take me in. All of which have risks. But let’s cross off that last one—or at least save it for later in the trip.
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For the other types of accommodations, web sites can give you a rough idea of what to expect, but like anything else, they are all dressed up to look their best. In fact, if the photos make the place look in the least sketchy, the reality is likely to be worse.
When it comes to my AirBnBs, my first was definitely worse. When I landed in Toulouse in September, I knew the AirBnB owner would be in the apartment. When I didn’t know was that it wasn’t a particularly big apartment and that, in addition to her 20-something daughter, there were sometimes as many as three other guests.
There was also construction workers renovating/repairing the concrete balconies outside the highrise and the noise would start at 8 every morning. The blinds in my room were covered in concrete dust, which she explained she hadn’t cleaned recently because it would just build up again. A few days later, I also had to endure the strong chemical smells from the industrial grade concrete paint they used to finish the balconies. That lasted two or three days, during which my landlord shrugged her shoulders but continued to book other renters.
The location was ideal tho. A block from the bus station, two from the trains and metro, right on the Canal du Midi, a 10-minute walk from centre of Toulouse. And the price was cheap, so I settled in.
A few nights later, I heard a woman yelling on the phone at around 11 pm and slowly realized it was coming from the daughter’s room next door to mine. The volume and pitch was such that I assumed she was berating a lover for cheating on her, though the words were too muffled for confirmation. There was no acknowledgement let alone an apology the next day from mother or daughter. I could only assume it was too common an occurrence to merit mention. Which turned out to be the case, as I would learn on subsequent nights.
Remember the column I wrote the time I got ill while I was visiting Moissac? When I got back to Toulouse, I spent about 36-hours straight in bed back at this same AirBnB. When I finally came out of it, I stripped the sick-soaked sheets off the bed and brought them out to the host. “I can run these in the laundry if you like,” I said.
She looked at me like I’d just laid an egg on her kitchen table. “Are you leaving?”
“What do you mean? You know I’m here another week.”
“Then why are you changing the sheets?”
“Because I’ve been here two weeks already and I just spent two days sick in bed. The sheets were soaked. Besides, you’re supposed to change them every week, two at the outside, for health reasons.”
She tsk-tsked me about the way North Americans waste water and electricity on such things and announced proudly that “we” only change sheets every two or three months. I wasn’t sure if she meant the French or just her and her daughter.
My French friends have assured me it’s the latter.
When I checked out as planned a few days later, she e-mailed me a message asking why there were two covers on my bed. She meant the duvet cover and a top sheet. I figured it was a waste of emotional energy trying to continue discussing linen etiquette with someone determined to save the planet one sheet at a time.
I didn’t bother to put these and other complaints in a review of the host for the same reason. I’d seen how she reacted online to previous bad reviews, attacking the complainer in revenge. I was just glad to be out of there, I wasn’t interested in extending the emotional circus into extra innings.
So how do people like this end up getting seemingly high ratings on the AirBnB site? I think it’s because lot of people are like me and aren’t angry enough to attack what, in this case, is essentially a single mother’s home business. Looking back at the published reviews and doing a rough calculation of the large volume of guests that she likely takes in, at most only about one guest in 20 were writing positive reviews. Considering that AirBnB pesters you to write reviews after every booking, that’s actually an indication of an overwhelming wave of indifference, at best.
“If you don’t have anything good to say, don’t say anything,” says the old saw.
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My next AirBnB was also problematic, but in honour of the above sentiment, let’s skip to the next one, which was also ideally located in Toulouse and had a live-in host. This time the host was super welcoming and told me to make myself at home when it came to the kitchen and laundry. He even invited me to check out a New Orlean’s-style jazz street parade he and his friends were organizing, was forgiving when I broke a dish rack attachment, and didn’t laugh too hard when I asked him how to flush the toilet.
My host in a historic building in the heart of Montpellier was equally welcoming, and Martine and I had some great conversations about her city. Ditto for Alma back in Toulouse, who also taught me about her native Tunisia. And Eric, my last host in Toulouse, basically turned over his whole house to me as he spent most nights at his copine’s place.
But staying in AirBnBs can be a little isolating, so I’ve tried to mix it up with a touch of communal living from time to time. I stayed in hostels in Strasbourg, Paris and now in Marrakesh. Not everyone is cut out for hostels, of course. You have to be willing to give up a little privacy and personal space. You’ve also got to be one of those people who can go straight back to sleep after hearing a bump or two in the night. In exchange, you get some inexpensive accommodations and, if you’re lucky, instant connections.
Like AirBnBs, they don’t all live up to advertising though. I chose my current one based on its user ratings of the riad and its staff, and on the frequent review references to the social circles that formed on the rooftop patio.
And I haven’t been disappointed. It is incredibly energizing to be part of the casual blend of languages, nationalities and professions of the people here. Discussion are free-flowing, the laughter frequent and friendships seem to form at the drop of a hat. Not to mention impromptu jam sessions on the roof.
Speaking of which, I wish I hadn’t left my tuque back in Toulouse. The weather in Marrakesh is hot and sunny in the afternoon, but drops to single digits overnight. Seems I can’t escape Canadian-ish temperatures, even in North Africa. Good thing it’s spring weather here by 10 am and summer by noon. So, yeah. I’m that Canadian, complaining about the cold.
In my next instalment, I’ll tell you a little more about the Marrakech experience as I mark my first ever Christmas away from home. Good thing I’m surrounded by fellow travellers, most of whom are doing the same. Thanks for keeping us company.