I stayed at an Airbnb in Vicenza, Italy—a quaint town in Northern Italy, sandwiched between Venice and Milan. It’s not a tourist hotspot, but it is full of Americans. Army Americans specifically.1My understanding is that the locals there don’t really enjoy having a foreign military base there, because why would they? But to repeat what my security officer said to me, have they heard of that thing called World War II? But sins of the father and all that, perhaps? Anyway, my mom balled out (as the kids say) and booked us a beautiful apartment three stories above the restaurant that my brother was a frequent patron of, sat squarely across the cathedral, and overlooked the plaza. It was Thanksgiving, which obviously isn’t a thing in Europe, but the town was getting ready for Christmas, so catenary lights made the nights not so dark. It was the first time that I realized that Italians just seem to get it: waking up late, drinking espresso, staying up late, drinking limoncello.
I will say, however, that the most memorable Airbnb I ever stayed at was a tiny little bamboo hut in rural Indonesia. I stayed there with a very special person. There were many sounds: the Australian five-year-old who couldn’t fall asleep in the hut next door; the insects that made it hard to sleep; the cheap motorcycles that made it even harder; the dog that repeatedly bit another dog until the most horrible sound I’ve ever heard came out; a song that sang Don’t be scared, don’t be scared, I love you, I love you over and over again; the sound we made as we cried while that song played.