Re-thinking airbnb

Tuesday, August 4, 2015

     I had hoped my stay in Prades would be restful, but it is not to be.  The temperatures are very high --about 88F at almost 7 p.m. and I have not even a fan in my bedroom.  Last night I tossed and turned, as the pillows I was given have a sweaty smell.  My hosts have washed them, but someone sweated into them and the smell oozed its way into my consciousness through the night until the moment I went into the bathroom and took out a bath towel to wrap the pillow in.

     My stomach is queasy, too.  I wonder whether I am suffering from a bit of altitude sickness.  Then again, I am again in an airbnb with others, not what I was used to last year, on my trips to the Cote d'Azur.  I have let my hosts know that if I don't feel better tomorrow, I will depart for Caunes.

     This raises, of course, the idea of whether I ought to go to Rome.  From what I see on the posting for the apartment, there will be no air conditioning.  And Rome, is, if anything hotter than the Pyrenees in the month of August.  When I stayed there with Bill about 15 years ago, we were in a luxury hotel, and it had air conditioning.

     Sometimes it is better to pull the plug than find oneself feeling under par in a foreign location. Better to give my tickets for the next two nights' concerts, cancel my stay and make it to my own bed, where I will be much more comfortable.

     I'll make up my mind shortly, but all my latest experiences with airbnb have taught me a few things:

     1. Always ask whether an apartment is on the ground floor;

     2. Always ask whether you will be sharing with anyone other than the owner of the property;

     3. Always ask whether there is air conditioning.

     Chances are, there won't be.  Europeans don't pay for a/c, which they believe noxious.  "Yes", a/c/ is not good for the environment, but at my age, without it, I might as well stay home.

                                                                         ***

     Then again, I had a viscerally negative reaction to Prades.  I had expected the village to be prosperous, thanks to the Casals Festival.  Instead, it is shabby and dirty and lifeless.

     At last night's concert, the crowd could have been patrons for Glimmerglass, the opera festival in Cooperstown, New York.  Older, reassuringly well-dressed, I could not tell the French and Spanish from the Americans:  everyone's dress identified them as belonging to the cosmopolitan, affluent class that takes vacations at high cultural festivals.

     The concert was superb, devoted to Spanish music and French music influenced by Spain.  A pianist, Jose Fernando Perez, a pupil of Alicia de Larocha's, captivated me with his playing.   I left at half-time, though, as I did not want to fight the traffic leaving the festival.  Memories of the struggle to get to a car at Tanglewood, among other venues, persuaded me that, as I was alone, it was probably better to leave when I had the road to myself.

     Tonight, though, I gave my ticket for an evening of woodwind quintettes, to my hosts, who gave it to their daughter.  I expect I will give the other two away as well, and depart first thing in the morning.  My reaction to staying in my hosts' house (an expansive 70s suburban in a neighborhood that could be anywhere) is not just founded on the heat, but also my memories of staying in boarding houses with my mother and sister when my mother was settling my grandfather's estate.  Eating together with strangers is not, generally "A Room With A View" --unless Maggie Smith and Denholm Elliot are among the guests.

     That is not the case where I am staying.  The other people staying here clacked their doors loudly at all hours of the night, whether they were using the toilet, showering or departing.  I find myself feeling suffocated by having to interact with strangers with whom I have in common only the desire for cheap lodging.  I like my autonomy, although I ought to have taken it into account in booking with my hosts in Prades.

     If Prades had any charm, I would probably stay.  The magnificent church of Saint Pierre, with extraordinary retablos is breathtaking.  And it's probably the only church I've ever seen where Saint Peter dominates the center of the altarpiece, dressed in his gold papal mitre and red robes trimmed with gold.  The church is, in effect a museum, containing also reliquaries of obscure saints.  Renovated n 2012, it is a jewel.

     It stands in the middle of a less-than-prepossessing village square, itself more recommendable than the main street of Prades and the streets that run across it.  Empty storefronts are everywhere, and those shops open sell food just as they did when Casals lived there --he must have been a man with spartan tastes.  His willingness to settle somewhere where no one would afford him any particular deference --in contrast to that he would have received had he settled in Paris, or New York, for instance-- bespeaks an admirable commitment to his principles.

     I, however, am here as a visitor, and entitled to make my own judgments.  The ruggedness and toughness of the Pyrenees is not for me.  As I write this I am in the altogether, sitting on a bath towel.  That, too, is probably scandalous, even to Audrey and her boyfriend, Baptiste, let alone my hosts and  the neighbors.    The people of the Pyrenees are very conservative, and reticent --no one has said Bon jour to me once, unless I initiated the exchange.  Give me Caunes and the Minervois.