THE ACCIDENT
AT THE HOUSE OF BISE BESPOKE
THE ACCIDENT
I clean toilets. Not something I had ever dreamed I’d be doing at this stage in my life. Quite the opposite of my adolescent dream, “I’m going to live in Manhattan and become the leading mezzo-soprano at the Metropolitan Opera House,” adding more convincingly, “by the time I’m thirty.” Yep. That was the goal for at least a decade and honestly, I have had many, many more “goals” since then. But today, at forty-six, my big goal is to finish cleaning the bathrooms, turn five beds, wash the breakfast dishes and mop all of the floors at House of Bise Bespoke. I do have an audience to impress at 2pm. They are called my guests. I’m an Airbnb Super Host. And it all happened, by accident…via Italy. Oh, Italia!
It had been twelve years since I’d been on a vacation. Like many people, I was a single parent. So whatever extra cash I had went toward those unexpected curveballs of parenthood: Rowing on the Charles River for my son, a writing course in Iowa City for my daughter, including acting classes off Broadway. All while being a slave to rent in the NYC area—on and on, I could go. I felt those extra things and having a nice roof in Hoboken were more important for the kids, instead of me drinking Nebbiolo in Genoa, sola. Therefore, when I needed a break from the ebb and more ebb in my life of responsibilities, I would think of that beautiful Italian light at the end of my game. Keep-swinging, keep-swinging until you are forty-four, I would silently chant, smiling.
Finally, my inning had arrived. With two kids now in college, trading my ‘boken pad for a classic-six in Cleveland, my funds were still tight, but I was hell-bent on going to Italy. Somehow.
The Plan.
If I drove from Cleveland to Toronto, my airfare would be doable. So that’s how I’d get there. But, lodging. That was pricey. I love hotels, especially nice sheets. I cherish calling room service for that perfectly brewed coffee in a silver urn accompanied with a real China cup. I really do go-to-mush over very fine linens and the Ritz-Carlton-way. Yet, that wasn’t in my budget—not even one night of my eight-day voyage. That damn Euro and my Budweiser nest egg. Ugh.
My dear friend, Anna, kept urging me to lodge Airbnb-style. She said it was fun and super cheap. She’s a guru, for sure. Truthfully, the idea of Airbnb freaked me out. I was worried the sheets would be a poly-blend, flat pillows with not even an ounce of down. I was vexed by the foreseen nightmare of attracting bed bugs, in lieu of an Italian lover. Mama Mia! I really wanted at least one Casanova for a night or two or hell, three would be perfecto. (It had been twelve years) And the thought of “sharing” a space with strangers, including the bathroom skeeved me out, even more so than the thought of sleeping on crappy sheets infested with unwanted critters. Then the reality set-in. Airbnb was all I could afford. I signed up, apprehensively.
I scoured listings for days, reading every review. Hundreds and hundreds of reviews with no mention of luxury bedding. Yet, I was high on the Florence bargain of $27 USD a night. I assured myself, “I’ll just drink a lot of vino before I crash into those cheap sheets and hopefully those bed bugs will become intoxicated off my blood and die before I awake.” Seduced by my own bravissima, I was ready to book my stays! Well, like everything in my life full of goals, there was a glitch. Since I had never used Airbnb before and I was new to it, the Italian hosts wanted some hefty deposits because of my virginal experience. My brava diminished to a soprano’s il lamento, most dramatically. When do they release my deposits? Will it be after fourteen days? I really need those deposits to eat and drink on my vacation. How the hell am I supposed to buy my treats in Alba and drink bottles of Barolo in my room with a view? It’s October, after all. I need to smother my eggs with white truffles. I need my money for truffles, not in some holding account!
Now fiscally frustrated, Anna —the guru suggested, “Hmm. Why don’t you list one of the kids’ bedrooms on Airbnb. They’re away at school, anyway. You can make some extra cash and once the hosts in Italy see you’re a host too, they accept you.” It worked like a charm, and I actually enjoyed it. Hosting. But it was never part of my plan, to continue with it after my trip. It was just a vehicle to reach a goal.
My first Airbnb experience was in Florence. Carmine, the host, met me promptly under the impressive travertine white limestone arched entrance. Walking up the stairs to the flat, the architecture was stunning within this historic 1800s structure. I mentioned to Carmine this was my first time staying in a shared space, as he unlocked the impressive wood carved door to the apartment. Once in the terra-cotta tiled entry hall, Carmine slowly started to ease my trepidation as he gave me a tour, explaining with an accent, “Five women from China staying in this large room, a French couple in the room next to yours, an American couple in the other room.” The bathroom, which we would all share, was spotless and modern. The kitchen was older, but clean. Carmine informed me that he stocks the refrigerator daily with milk and other basics his guests might need. Every bedroom had an exterior lock, too. This was not his only Airbnb managed property. I realized that this was his full-time job. It fascinated me. My room was exceptionally clean, with a small interior balcony, my window overlooked Mercato Centrale. On the charming desk, Carmine had left me a bottle of Chianti with an opener and a wine glass. Oh, and the sheets were 200TC percale and the bed was firm, catering to my OCD for a good night’s sleep. I couldn’t believe I was finally in Florence and my three-night stay was only $134.93 with taxes and fees. What a bargain.
As a solo traveler, in a foreign country, a shared space was absolutely perfect for me. I was able to meet with the other guests, gathering tips from them—such as where to shop, eat, which museums were worth the long lines, and so on. I would run into Carmine at least once a day when he was stocking the kitchen or checking-in with other guests. He genuinely desired for all of us to have wonderful stay and he would message me once a day too, making sure my needs were met. This kind of service I had never experienced at a hotel.
After Florence, I had a quick, one-night stay in Genoa. I booked a basic, four-star, waterfront hotel, which cost me as much as my entire three-night stay at Carmine’s Lorenzo De’Medici Bed and Breakfast. The concierge was kind and upgraded my room, to include a loggia overlooking the port. After my Genovese walk-about in the cold rain, I was looking forward to my hotel room, listening to ropes of the sail boats snap in the wind with the whipping sound of water lulling me to sleep, wrapped in those perfectly crisp sheets. However, I never really got to experience that perfect night’s sleep, alone. (I had met Casanova at the hotel bar…)
The next morning, on the train, I couldn’t wait to get to my next destination. My entire Italian voyage was put together for one village, Alba. I had booked a large one-bedroom apartment on the top floor of a fifteenth century gothic-styled building, with a view of Alba Cathedral for three nights (cost: $244.11). The owner of the flat, my host, insisted on picking me up from the train station. Now in her Fiat, she drove like a mad woman, taking sharp turns at high speed. I was in fear of my life for the one mile journey, as Daniella, my host, chuckled at my uneasiness. After hiking-up the one hundred and five steps to her apartment, Daniella gave me a quick tour of the flat via her very broken English. After she handed me the key, I did not hear from her again.
Walking the stone paved streets in Alba, I was in awe. It is the most magical city I have ever experienced. My soul was overflowing with joy, downloading all the architecture with German, French, Swiss and Italian influences. I purchased my one-ounce white truffle, planning on tenderly shaving it on all of my meals, during my stay. I cooked all my meals in Alba, alone in my large apartment. I drank a lot of wine, alone. I ate so many hazelnut treats, again alone. I soon realized how terribly lonely I was in the most romantic city I had ever been to, wishing there was someone to share my truffle laced meals with or even saunter the village with. Anyone would do, even a stranger. I missed the camaraderie I experienced in Florence, sharing a space with other guests.
On the ten hour train from Alba to Rome, I contacted my next hosts, Louis and Paola. They offered to send a driver to pick me up from the station. After my previous ride-of-fear in a Fiat, I politely declined. During my three mile walk to their pad, I loved the energy in Rome; it was a bit like New York, to me and after being alone in Alba I felt a kinship to the buzz around me.
Luis met me at the entrance of his building where a room rents for the nightly rate of $36.05 USD. After a quick tour of his palatial apartment, where he and Paola reside with her daughter and her children, I sat with him in the kitchen drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes for nearly an hour, discussing his life in Italy as an American. He then escorted me to a little store to purchase more cigarettes, introducing me to the staff and adding, “She looks like a younger Monica Bellucci, no?” They all agreed. This made me a little uncomfortable as he continued to introduce me to every shop owner surrounding his building, mentioning my resemblance to the Italian movie star. Finally, I was able to break free from my hospitable host and explore a bit of Rome. Prior to my Italian journey, I didn’t think I would enjoy Rome, so I scheduled one day—the last night of my voyage. Man, was I wrong. Rome turned out to be a great vibe for me and I should have shaved a night off Alba and Florence, adding two more nights in the Eternal City.
Now back in the USA, I was enjoying my freedom as an empty nester. Believe it or not, I had never lived by myself. I had always had a roommate or a husband or my kids residing with me. So having an entire apartment for moi was wonderful. I felt like a twenty-three-year-old recent college graduate with an empty refrigerator. It sure was revolutionary, as a forty-four-year-old woman. And then, a few months after my liberation of living alone, my smart phone beamed a notification: Congratulations! Jorge booked your place for two nights. What? How did that happen? I soon realized that I had “snoozed” my listing on Airbnb and did not delete it. Awe, shit. After a little more pondering over the mishap, I decided that I should honor Jorge’s reservation and possibly continue being a part-time Airbnb host, as a side hustle. I do love people and their personal histories, even more. And I have been known to be good at “mothering,” even to the strangest of creatures…
Nearly a year later my side hustle became a raging success, leading to a full-time business—because of a house.