Wei was an eight year old boy from China, who walked with a heavy thunder more appropriate for a middle aged lumberjack exhausted from a day working deep in the woods. Despite my asking him to mind the guests sleeping right below, he continued to pound his feet harder on the floor, driving me to offer a stern look with an elevated voice to ask him, again, to walk like a delicate fawn.
Although it was unclear to me whether he understood the actual words, the message was finally delivered and received by a flippant glare-turned-clumsy-tumble onto the couch in the living room with a smartphone in hand.
Meanwhile, while Wei’s older brother played on the computer hanging from the dining room table, his father feverishly prepared breakfast for the family in my kitchen. I sat at my desk — with visibility into all the busy rooms — taking in the activities occurring inside my house on a bright Sunday morning.
I was living with a Chinese family of four. They shared my kitchen, scurried between bedrooms upstairs and walked across the oak floors with gusto. Our common language was hand gestures, tone of speaking and some key phrases on Google Translate.
The Zhou family shared my house with me for three weeks — a booking made via Airbnb for their Chinese New Year vacation.
The first few days were a lot for me to take in and full of fleeting “why do I do this?” pangs of regret. Then the boys somehow “accidentally” decapitated a wooden giraffe I bought along the side of the road on the way to Kruger National Park in South Africa and my communication jumped the language barrier — very clearly this time. This incident changed the trajectory of the stay and despite Wei’s continued glares, we all got into a groove.
A few weeks later I awoke to a strange feeling that my house was empty. The first clue was the overwhelming sense of quiet. No doors slamming or loud Mandarin conversations through the walls. Still waking up, I wandered into the small hallway to find a disheveled scene of doors wide open and white towels strewn on the bathroom floor.
Food items were left in the kitchen as if nothing happened and the living room that typically had various technology apparatus and power cords floating over the furniture, now lay barren with only teetering pillows and blankets.
It felt like a whirlwind had come to an abrupt stop, but about five days too early.
When I finally got to my phone I noticed two messages on my Airbnb app. The first was from the guest staying in the separate apartment downstairs, who’d departed that morning as scheduled. She complained that the noise in the middle of the night above her was so loud she couldn’t sleep. It was excessive to the point of asking for a refund for that night, which I granted.
The second message was from Zhi Ruo, the mother, awkwardly translated by Airbnb, explaining that because of issues around coronavirus, the family was offered a flight that early morning to leave the USA and otherwise were not guaranteed to get home.
There I was, in an empty house — a cloud of change on the horizon for me and the world.
The Zhou family were my last foreign visitors. My mom-and-pop business was paralyzed for several months before demand for virtual office locations and social distancing bunkers emerged. The world was forever changed, and Airbnb strangely started to immediately adapt to a new landscape, leaving the old model behind in the dust.
I made my Airbnb debut back in 2015 after completing a full renovation of my home in Seattle. My friend Zach encouraged me to join the sharing economy and I’ve never looked back since. Despite the few pangs of “why do I do this” (as mentioned above), the rewards far outweigh the occasional annoyances.
My Airbnb world developed into a way to travel in reverse — opening up my heart and mind to learning in surprising ways. I hosted wonderful people like Samir, a medical school student from Sudan and Kriti, a woman relocating from Singapore to Seattle to work for Microsoft. I remember two 20-something women from Taiwan who shared espresso and tales of “two Chinas” in my kitchen while we stared at the giant classroom-style world map hanging on the wall.
Hosting also provides me the chance to experience the Pacific Northwest through the eyes of all kinds of diverse visitors while serving as an ambassador to a place I love so much. What do they like about Seattle? Where do they want to explore? Inadvertently, this exchange of information helps me create the content for Kessi World — where I also offer myself as an ambassador and host of sorts.
A year into the pandemic, I miss my international guests — even Wei — just as I miss international travel myself. I look forward to the day that both are revived, whenever that may be.
I remain in a place of gratitude for my home in Seattle and life welcoming guests, whether from Bremerton or Beijing. Hospitality is a way of living and thinking, and I love bringing both my home and Kessi World website to life for visitors — I’m a host either way, and that brings me joy. I incorporate this reflection of appreciation into my daily meditation and it helps me find balance in these turbulent times.
Despite the drastic changes brought about by the pandemic, what’s kept constant in your life? What are you thankful for? What’s one thing you can’t wait to return to “normal?”
I keep the pieces of the wooden giraffe atop my dresser, telling myself I’ll eventually glue him back together. For now, they serve as a reminder that eventually the Weis of the world will once again traipse across my living room, just the same way many things, both expected and unexpected, will be glued back together.
Matthew
All this reflecting about my Airbnb journey…
…inspired me to write an article containing “pro-tips” to find, book and experience the best Airbnb’s. Click on the tile below to check it out on the Kessi World website.
