Category: Unsolicited Advice

On the last leg of my trip (right after New Year’s), since it was cold outside, I tried AirBnB instead of camping. My AirBnB stays ranged from “sort of okay” (a term my dad uses) to great. The hosts all seemed decent, nice, normal. I wasn’t involved in any creepy scenarios, shady interactions, or altercations. None of the other guests seemed freaky or dangerous. Everything worked out fine. 

In general, though, I felt like I was intruding, invading the host’s personal space, even when they were welcoming. I mean, you are a stranger in another family’s home, microwaving rice in their kitchen while they go about their normal lives, having conversations about people and events you’ve never heard of, their teenage kids inviting friends over and popping in a movie. Most of the time, I didn’t feel comfortable enough to lounge on their living room couches. I also had my own projects to work on, and didn’t necessarily want company during that time. I’d often end up staying in my bedroom, which felt claustrophobic and reclusive. Sometimes I hung out in the living room or at the kitchen table if I was the only one around.  

Offerings extended from sleeping on a couch to renting out an entire house. Actually, some listings were for land where you could set up a tent or park or an RV. Prices differed wildly among similar offerings. In some areas, hotel rooms with a microwave, fridge, and bathroom were available for the same price or less money than an AirBnB where all you’d have to yourself was a bedroom. Either the hosts were delusional, or guests are willing to pay for the experience of meeting new people. I was mostly looking for a place to sleep, so price usually determined where I stayed. Once, I rented a three-bedroom house because it was cheaper than a low-to mid-range hotel room.  

On the highly-rated end, some homes looked like highlights from interior decorating magazines, were spotlessly clean, and the hosts treated me like a guest. They chatted, asked if I needed help carrying bags inside, asked if I wanted my dirty towel added to their load of laundry, invited me to hang out with their family in the living room, and wished me safe travels on my last day. I came down with a cold during one stay, and the host asked if she could drive into town and get some medicine, asked how I was doing when she saw me in passing, and cooked soup for us from scratch.  

After I had decided what area of the country to move to, I stayed in a couple AirBnBs while I looked for an apartment. The hosts at one of those AirBnBs both happened to be real estate agents. They shared valuable information with me like where the good and bad parts of town were, and which rental companies had a good reputation, in addition to directing me to area attractions. (Thank you, Nate and Joe!)

On the “sort of okay” end, accommodations felt and looked thrown together last-minute. For example, one house was basically a pole barn with plywood walls creating separate rooms. My room had what looked like a 40 watt incandescent lightbulb on the ceiling, so dim I had trouble seeing what I was doing. The building was heated by what looked like a large, industrial space heater near the front door, but heat was not dispensed into each bedroom via a central heating system, and I was freezing. A different place I rented was situated immediately off of a freeway exit, and I ended up leaving early because the sound of traffic was so distracting I couldn’t concentrate.  

One AirBnB bedroom was a garden shed, the pre-made kind you can buy at big box hardware stores. It may have been insulated, but it sure didn’t feel like it. The only heat source was a small space heater. You had to go outside to another shed to use the bathroom. I wouldn’t mind either of these things in pleasant weather, but it was below freezing. During the night, I went out to my car and got my sleeping bag and blankets and used them in addition to the bedding provided by the hosts. When I woke up in the morning, the bottoms of my feet were partially white. (To be fair, my feet start to turn white pretty easily. But it usually happens when I’m walking outside in the cold, not when I’m bundled up in bed.) The “kitchen” was basically another shed with a refrigerator, a microwave, and a Keurig. No sink, though, and no counter. You had to get water from the bathroom shed (if it was open) and clean your dishes there, too. It was doable, but not ideal. Cleanliness did not seem to be a priority at this location, either. My garden shed door didn’t have a lock on it, which felt somewhat dangerous. (I later found a padlock inside one of the dresser drawers, but by then, it seemed pointless.) The saving grace for this rental was that I stayed there on the night of the super blood wolf moon (eclipse), and I had a good view of the moon and got some good pictures.

My time camping had numbed me toward disgusting living quarters, so “sort of okay” was probably a generous rating for a couple of the places I stayed. Some of the issues I mentioned you can see right in the pictures accompanying the AirBnB listings. In my experience, if a place looks shabby in the picture, it probably won’t surprise you much in real life.  

It was hard to give bad reviews to hosts I had met and talked with, and who seemed like decent people. In those cases, instead of writing a public review, I would usually ignore AirBnB’s emails asking me to review the host until I got an email saying, basically, “Your host won’t see this; just let us know how your stay went,” and then you rate them on a scale of 1 to 5. When it gets to that point, there is no area to elaborate. Not that I’m in favor of people trashing each other, but I would keep this in mind when reading reviews; the ratings may tend to skew in favor of being nice toward the hosts so as not to hurt their feelings.  

Some hosts kept to themselves, and others were friendlier. I mentioned that some hosts made a point of saying goodbye on the last morning of my stay. Well, others left the house without a word, even though I was right there, eating breakfast in the kitchen. Then again, it’s possible to be too friendly. One host talked incessantly from the moment I entered the house straight through the next three hours. I’ll admit that the conversation was interesting. But I didn’t even get to put my bags in my room until the other guest who was staying there came back from his foray downtown and the host wanted to hear all about his experience. I took the chance to escape and locked myself in my bedroom for the rest of the night, which isn’t exactly ideal, either.  

When I first started using AirBnB, I was more guarded about my travel situation, for protection. Making small talk, hosts would ask where I worked. I hadn’t thought up an alternate lie, so I named the last job I held: working in the recruiting office of a community college. I acted as if I were on vacation. My first host also happened to work in the Student Services department of a community college. “When does your semester start?” she asked. “January 16th,” I threw out, having no idea what day of the week it was. Turned out it was a Wednesday. To my relief, she didn’t seem to doubt my answer, and didn’t ask how I was able to get a vacation during one of the busiest times of the year.  

Each AirBnB has its own check in and check out times, and its own rules. At some places, you can use their washer and dryer, their kitchen, their shower, their WiFi. Other hosts don’t want you using any of these. Some hosts ask you to strip the bed sheets before you leave, or take out the trash. Others don’t require anything of you. Some hosts will cook breakfast for you in the morning (if they do, it will probably be advertised in their listing).  

Whenever I had a kitchen to myself, I went a little overboard, excited to eat Real Food again (instead of On The Road food). Some AirBnBs were mother-in-law suites and didn’t have traditional stovetops and ovens, but were equipped with countertop appliances, such as a rice cooker, an electric skillet, a microwave, a George Foreman grill, a toaster oven, a slow cooker, and a hot plate. I experimented with some new gadgets and later bought a couple of them myself.  

One benefit of staying in other people’s houses is just that: you find out what it’s like to live in another house. You can try out their kitchen appliances, test out their mattresses, their fancy showerheads, their shampoo, see what kind of decorating other people are doing, see what you like in a house, what you don’t like, what you use daily, and what you never use. If you’re thinking of moving, having a house built, renovating, or redecorating, it might be time and money well spent to stay in a few AirBnBs to get a flavor for whether or not you would actually like some of the features you’re considering installing but have never actually tried (for example, a wood stove, a tile floor in a bedroom, or an outrageous wall color). I stayed in a tiny house for a night, to see what it was like and if I could live like that. (I could, although I’d prefer a different layout from the one I stayed in.)  

Just like staying in hotels or campgrounds, your satisfaction with AirBnB will probably depend a lot on the specific space you rent. And your attitude.  

While visiting a friend in North Carolina, three of us went to the American Legion one night to play BINGO. I had never played an official game of BINGO (i.e., in public, with cash prizes), and was only familiar with the stereotype that playing BINGO is for old people. I thought of it as an activity that victims, often in wheelchairs, are coerced into only after their brains have turned to jello. I’m sure the level of the game depends on the venue and the specific caller, but there was a lot more mental work involved than I had anticipated.  

In most games, each person was given eighteen BINGO cards to mark. The calling was fast-paced. In some games, the corner squares were designated as free spaces, and thankfully, more experienced players sitting near us told us that in advance so we could try and mark the corners before the game started. In some games, the caller would announce that certain numbers were “free.” (The free number might be “two, and any number that ends in two.”) After a period of time that was not nearly long enough, she’d ask if everyone was done marking the free spaces. I’m not sure why she bothered to ask- even when loud protests came from the audience, she barreled ahead. For each game, the winning numbers had to make a different and specific configuration of dots, so you not only had to keep up with marking your cards, but remember to periodically check the current winning configuration and see if that design materialized on your cards.  

The most confusing part was that a ping pong ball with a number-letter combination would appear on TV monitors in the corners of the room, and the caller would call that number out loud only after she took the ball away and placed the next ball in front of the camera. So, she might call out “O-sixty-three!” and I’d instinctively look up at the monitor, only to see a ball with “I-24” written on it. So, if you wanted the number on the screen to match the number you were searching for, you had to work ahead of the caller, but you were already behind from trying to mark the free spaces.  

During the game Speed BINGO, the caller said she wasn’t going to read letters- just numbers. She didn’t repeat any of them, and it was at a faster pace than normal. We each had two cards that we were in charge of marking, and I think even one would have been a challenge. During a normal game, she might call, “N-37, three seven, thirty-seven.” Then there would be a short wait, and then the next number would be called. During the speed game, it went more like this: “thirty-seven five fifty-eight eleven twenty-six nine forty-one seventy twenty-two sixteen.”  

The most refreshing part of the experience was seeing tables with generations of families together: teenagers, moms, grandmothers. Yes, why not choose an activity that everyone involved is able to comfortably participate in? Why not spend one evening a week in the company of your extended family?

As far as the game itself, I think of those posters with photos of senior citizen athletes and the caption, “Growing old ain’t for sissies.” Beware, BINGO is not for the feeble-minded or faint of heart! BINGO is no joke!  

Four-hundred forty-four miles long, the Natchez Trace extends from southern Mississippi across the corner of Alabama, into the middle of Tennessee. The Trace was originally a footpath traveled by Native Americans, European explorers, and early settlers hundreds and thousands of years ago. The National Park System wanted to preserve the history of the path, and did so by building a road that roughly follows the trail.  

The Trace was designed to be a scenic byway. Two lanes wind and curve, buffered by stunning scenery on each side, mostly forests or farm fields scattered with hay bales. I drove on pieces of it in January and February- probably the bleakest time of the year- and it was gorgeous. I would love to go back in other seasons to hike, take pictures, and just experience another layer of the area’s character. 

Waysides are built all along the route. Drive or bike the Trace at your own pace, stopping at whatever place names and interpretive signs interest you. (My favorite name for a stop was ‘Dogwood Mudhole.’ The stop itself was nothing special in February. I’m not sure if dogwoods actually bloom there in spring, or if the name is only a relic of a former landscape.) Some points of interest include: Native American Indian mounds, a museum in the Visitor’s Center, waterfalls, a Craft Center, military sites, overlooks, intersections with the Trail of Tears, interpretive trails, old cemeteries, former guesthouses, a cypress swamp, ruins of buildings, state parks, and sections of the old trace itself, where you can walk on the same path as the Native Americans and early settlers. Access points to the Natchez Trace National Scenic Trail, with over 60 miles of hiking trails (over 50 of them open to horseback riding), are available from the Trace.  

Driving the Trace reminded me of my trip across South Dakota to the Badlands [which you can read about here], and of the legacy of Route 66. It’s the whole idea of driving on one road and stopping at a bucketload of attractions along the way, so the point of the trip is the journey, not the destination.  

Adding to the beauty of the Trace, no businesses are situated along the road. If you want to get gas or buy something to eat or stop for the night, you need to get off the Trace and stop in a nearby town. (Guides detailing restaurants, attractions, shopping, recreation, and more in nearby towns are available online and in print. Many of these towns are tiny, and you will be supporting small, independent businesses.) No commercial vehicles are allowed on the road, either. The Trace has a speed limit of 50 mph (or less, in some areas) to allow you to soak in the views.  

I don’t think I had even heard of the Natchez Trace before my big road trip. What’s more surprising is discovering that there are Tennessee residents who have never heard of it! While it’s easier to enjoy a park when it has few visitors, I have to say that the Natchez Trace is severely underrated and deserves more attention. Granted, I was not there during peak season, but I was still surprised at how little traffic was on it. At times, it felt like they had constructed the elaborate highway just for me.  

I drove on my first portion of the Trace during the government shutdown. This meant that none of the buildings were open- no restrooms, no water fountains, no visitor’s centers. I guess I should be glad the place was open at all. But every time I wanted to go to the bathroom, I had to get off the Trace and search for one. Luckily, when I went back on it later, the government was up and running.  

I would recommend the Natchez Trace to history buffs, nature lovers, photographers, hikers, bikers, and anyone who loves a road trip. It was one of my favorite parts of my year-long trip around the United States.