Enter scene.
It is midnight on a Tuesday evening in San Francisco in February, and it is pouring rain.
I reach my Airbnb in the Haight Ashbury region of San Francisco after 10 hours of transit, only to discover that my AirBNB host -- a very wealthy man named Barry -- **did not leave me a key to enter his house**.
Thus I am locked out, on the street, in the rain, with nowhere to go.
I force myself to quickly accept the facts ===
I am locked out, in the rain, at midnight, with a pile of luggage, on the street >>>> and therefore I am: ***oh yes*** ***quite fucked***.
Naturally -- I begin to openly weep.
(PSST >> read more, after the jump!)
Fueled forward by my indulgent Slavic-style street-side weeping -- I somehow regain enough composure to try out yet-another neighbor (#5).
I acknowledge the clear-cut futility of knocking on various & random stranger’s doors at midnight -- even as I approach another random townhouse door. A Cossack knows nothing of defeat, I say!
I sigh, and knock on yet-another door, half-heartedly.
After a minute: I hear **GASP*** tiny, padded footsteps.
To my surprise: an elderly Asian American woman answers the door. She stares at my waterlogged, weepy visage with a clear mix of confusion, pity and skepticism.
I blurt out my case: late night arrival, AirBNB, no key! The woman takes pity on my sad, sobbing self on the street.
“Wow, I’m so sorry… I would hate to have this happen to me….” she says, peering out down the road towards my AirBNB.
She continues: “I *do* know your AirBNB host, Barry. He’s hunting in Northern Brazil; you’ll never be able to reach him... God, If I were in your position, I would feel terrible.…”
She pauses, and pensively stares out into the dark, rainy street again--as if searching for some sign of Brazil-bound Barry in the rain.
I hold my breath. The woman looks down at me, with clear pity in her eyes.
She closes her eyes, and suddenly exclaims: “... Okay, yeah! I can let you inside.” She gestures inside her home, invitingly.
Now: due to my extreme, weepy, waterlogged desperation -- I, of course, felt so grateful for her offering of shelter.
At the same time -- being a streetwise city gal -- I quickly realize, that entering a complete stranger’s home at midnight, may not represent the *best fix* to my midnight quandary.
I try to politely decline the woman’s offer.
“Thanks so much, but… I think I’d better just go out and find a hotel.... I don’t want to take up space in your home.”
She laughs grimly, “Oh no, I'm not letting you into THIS home here. HAH!” She stares back out into the rain. “I’m saying I’ll let you in to Barry’s place. I actually have a key.”
>> HALLEL >> EFFING >>LU >> JAH! >>>>
*****Bless you, grandmas of Haight Ashbury /// human spirit*****
So, in the pouring rain of a Tuesday evening: I follow my Asian grandma savior as she hobbles in her robe and slippers through the dark--AirBNB key in her gently-shaking hand.
We reach the door to Barry’s abode. While struggling with the bolt, the woman slowly turns back to me, and states cryptically: “I really don’t come here very often. To be honest with you: I avoid it. Barry only gave me this key, because -- sometimes-- he makes me feed those goddamn fish of his.”
On her words “goddamn fish of his” (( evidently, the equivalent to “Open Sesame” for spooky AirBnBs in the Haight )) the bolt gives in, and the door creaks open.
The old woman and I enter the pitch-black entryway of the townhouse.
As we walk in the dark inside: I briefly consider the woman’s last words: "those goddamn fish.”
I recall that the AirBNB listing featured a picture of a small, tropical fish (see below). "What could this woman find so troubling or burdensome about feeding a lil’ ol' fish?" I wonder.
The listing and its falsest fish advertising.
The woman's soft voice interjects in the dark, hollow space, "It's so dark, and I'm worried I will trip if I keep walking. Can you move ahead and find the lights?”
I feel around the pitch-black walls--and find the light switch. I turn on the lights.
And then, I see them:::: A large tank 8 feet wide and 4 feet deep, >100 gallons fills half of the main living room.
Inside: two ghastly >20 lb Asian carp, circling ominously.
Oh, and the surroundings of this >100 gallon Asian carp tank?
A living room featuring:
= >10 taxidermied animals, including two bear rugs, five rams, a fully-grown wolf, a lynx, and a buffalo !
{{ Clearly “The Most Dangerous Game” is not just a fantastical short story commonly consumed in high school English classrooms >> but also -- for Rich, old white men in the Haight -- a tangible & attractive lifestyle brand. }}
= >20 pictures of Barry -- not with family or friends -- but with his realest loves: the animals he hunted and slaughtered himself, prior to converting them to taxidermy trophies.
<3 A STRONG MAN AND THE SHIT HE KILLED <3
<3 MAN + CARCASS === TRU LUV <3
<3 CLEARLY NOT ENOUGH WALL SPACE FOR ALL THAT GLORIOUS CELEBRATION OF WILDLIFE DEATH <3
= >5 ~decorative~ guns
// Probs purchased at Evil Overlord Anthropology //
// Hero status //
= 1 picture of not-dead-animals, which my friend Sarah believed was the sole picture in the house that actually featured Barry’s family.... Unfortunately, she was mistaken.
... It was actually a picture of Richard Nixon.
MOM.
= Asian-inspired erotica feat. lots of kinky group sex. I'll purposely keep this JPG small AF, to avoid triggering the wrath of Blogger / my readers' immense disgust.
(Note: I had to sleep next to this thing.)
Not pictured:
= Many, many ropes, whips, chains, cock rings, and a ceramic dildo.
= >50 prescription pill bottles for totes-OTC meds like Oxycodone & Ketamine.
= Like, 2,000 MOTHER EFFING CDS. (Taxidermy-loving comic villains know nothing of Spotify.)
= Count em **THREE** mysterious locked rooms. ((Rooms which we can conservatively estimate to be, various intensities of sex dungeons and/or taxidermy labs and/or gun storage. Most likely: all the above.))
You can perhaps imagine the overwhelming waves of horror that hit me -- to take it all in.
Indeed: I shifted from feeling glorious relief at finding miraculous shelter from the storm >>> to experiencing deepest, bleakest shock to absorb it: *** this taxidermy temple of terror, my only source of shelter for the evening.***
IMPT NOTE: User input be damned.
// This AirBNB listing had 85 reviews and 4.5 stars y'all! //
// This AirBNB listing had 85 reviews and 4.5 stars y'all! //
Bringing me out of my horrified reverie: My grandma savior quietly asks, with obvious sympathy in her voice: “So… How many days do you have to stay here?”
“Um ... “ I pause, quietly/tragically counting the days like they’re the final steps to my grave, maybe-kinda-still-very-much teary eyed. I answer: “… Seven.”
“Ohhh no.” she replies, while *clearly backing outta the AirBNB as fast as her slippers could take her*. “I’m really so sorry."
The woman pauses at the door, looks back, and whispers: "Good luck, honey.”
“THANK YOU AGAIN” I wail, as the woman (understandably) scurries out the front door.
So, I “slept” that evening as restfully as a totally-amped-on-fear individual, who is sleeping 10-feet from two enormous asian carp, >10 taxidermied animals and a portrait of Satan, can sleep.
/~ so safe, so sound ~/
The next morning I arose to the sound of Asian carp a’swirlin’.
My first agenda item: find alternative shelter, that does not feature carcasses of many dead animals / live bodies of swirling carp!! RIGHT? Right!
Alas: I rapidly scan the scarce and expensive last-minute inventory available in SF that very-booked week. Result: 10% of hotel and AirBNB inventory avail at $475/night on average = 2.5X what I had (pre-)paid for my Satanic AirBNB
>>>> I then uncover a fun fact. When you sign up for an AirBNB, your cancellation and refund policy is **largely defined by the host.**
Therefore: the host locking you out, and secretly-filling his place with terrifying objects not-advertised in his listing, and generally being a caricature of 19th century colonial overlord, *do not serve as reason enough* to get a refund on your AirBNB.
Remember, kids --THE SHARING ECONOMY = filled with the same supply-side fuckery that makes it not-really-all-that-different than the regular ol’ capitalist economy ===
Surely anxiety can’t get much more acute, than when one is encased in the creeping crawling crypt of a carp- and carcass-filled haunted house.
AMIRITE?
…. Actually: No, folks. I found myself to be very wrong.
Cuzzz the year 2017 -- in its infinite & expanding oddness -- provides me, and all of us, a whole slew of effed up narratives that haunt the days. Creepy Ass Carp could never compete.
Believe it or not: In the end -- I found myself channeling their eerie, aquatic gaze and unlocking odd & unexpected moments of // zen //.
Enlightenment, at the hands of beastly invasive species of the Great lakes >>> All this, and more, when /// PART 2 COMETH //////////////////////
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