(Or, How I Accidentally Booked a Hippie Commune With a Fire Alarm and Netflix)
We drove right past the place we were supposed to be staying, kept going down a gravel road, and ended up staring at an old Airstream that looked like it had survived several natural disasters and possibly a minor exorcism. For a second, I thought, Oh no. Those Airbnb reviews lied.
To be fair, this happens a lot. My husband has an uncanny ability to find listings with the words “rustic” or “hunting lodge” in the description and think, this looks charming. That’s how we usually end up in places that smell faintly of bait shop and regret.
Our actual Airbnb turned out to be just up the road—a “vintage travel trailer” that had belonged to the owner’s late father, now lovingly restored as a weekend rental. It sat behind a garden that looked like a team of very polite hippies had built it from spare parts and dreams.
The owner was a sweetheart—think gentle, bohemian energy with an apron and an appreciation for solar lights. She taught yoga, naturally, and mentioned that she and her boyfriend were getting ready to move to Ecuador, because of course they were. Her mom lived across the garden in what appeared to be a converted greenhouse. I could see both houses from the deck, which felt comforting in the daylight and a little Deliverance after dark.
Inside, it wasn’t terrible—think Urban Cowboy with better flooring and nicer window coverings. There was no fairy lighting to speak of, but the front deck was incredible—easily bigger than the trailer itself, with garden lights that made you forget for a second that your bedroom had wheels.
The deck overlooked a set of raised garden beds that thrived under what could only be described as commune-level supervision. Everything was green and lush, like the salad bar at a co-op that also sold crystals.
There was a locked closet in the corner the host specifically told us not to open. Which, naturally, made me want to open it more than I had ever wanted to open anything in my life. I had no idea what was inside, but the whole place already screamed Texas Chainsaw Massacre meets The Walking Dead. And whatever was living in that Airstream out back was definitely using water—I just chose to believe it was for a grow farm and not… anything else.
The good news was, I could never have lost anything in there. There simply was nowhere for it to go.
The bed looked nice, but it was a full and jammed into the corner, so there was no graceful way for two people to use it unless you enjoyed sleeping like Tetris pieces. Even as it was, my feet dangled off the edge of the bed (and I’m only 5’6”). My husband, as a result, took the pullout couch—the one the owner had assured us was “very comfortable.” (They always say that.)
The bathroom was… eclectic, in that “please don’t turn on a blacklight” kind of way. A few stray hairs clung to the faucet, likely left behind by a previous guest who either died there or just gave up mid-rinse. There was a candle, incense, and a book of matches, which I could only assume were part of the same emergency plan. The toilet flushed—which, in a trailer, felt like finding a working elevator in an abandoned mall—but I didn’t trust that I could blow dry my hair without triggering an electrical fire or a spiritual awakening. I let it air dry and prayed the smoke alarm wouldn’t mistake it for divine intervention.
The shower was roughly the size of an upright coffin with slightly better lighting. The curtain wrapped around me like cling film every time I moved, and I’m not convinced it hadn’t been part of a crime scene at some point. Getting out was its own escape-room challenge—trying to avoid touching both the toilet and the sink, which were aggressively close. It was like an airplane bathroom, only slightly larger, and without the sweet release of flight.
The kitchen was a study in contradictions. There was a Cuisinart coffee maker, a bag of Starbucks coffee, and enough glassware to host a wine tasting for twelve—which felt wildly optimistic given that the sink was the size of a salad bowl. There were also two zucchinis in the fridge when we arrived—which the owner promptly retrieved when I mentioned them—but she seemed entirely unconcerned about the forty condiments, a half-empty jar of pickles from the Bush administration, or the freezer that was auditioning for a role as an iceberg. The coffee maker had a delicate layer of dust, like it hadn’t seen action since Obama’s first term, and a cobweb draped over one of the light fixtures that looked so intentional I briefly wondered if the host was going for “haunted farmhouse chic.”
It was as if Bud and Sissy had bought their dream trailer, hosted one brunch, lost interest halfway through mimosas, and immediately listed it on Airbnb—complete with leftover produce and a side of mild emotional damage.
There was even a flat-screen TV in the “master” bedroom with Netflix, which felt out of place in a trailer otherwise powered by good intentions, extension cords, and maybe the ghost of its previous owner. Still, it technically worked—which was more than I could say for the freezer—though it buffered every twenty seconds, which made watching The Goonies unintentionally interactive. Honestly, it felt fitting. Between the cobwebs, the locked closet, and the mysterious noises from the Airstream out back, I half-expected Sloth to burst through the wall yelling “Hey you guys!” at any moment. There was also a functioning fire alarm, which felt reassuring given the amount of incense, candles, and questionable wiring. It’s always nice when a potential crime scene is up to code.
It was weird, yes—but it was our kind of weird. The deck was peaceful, the garden glowed like a scene from a Hallmark movie for vegans, and the hosts were as gracious as they were fascinating. I’ve stayed in worse places (and paid more for them), but few that smelled this strongly of patchouli and suspense.
Still, if that locked closet had creaked open, I wouldn’t have waited for an explanation—I’d have grabbed the zucchini, dodged the cobweb light fixture, and made a break for the deck lights.
P.S. My luggage now smells like patchouli and enlightenment.
Absurdities and Fires 