Houseguests: the good, the bad, the never-again

Randi Kreiss

This spring, for the first time, my husband and I were houseguests. Up until now, our policy has been no sleepovers. If we visit friends, we prefer to have our own sleeping space in a nearby B&B or motel.

You have to know yourself, and I know I’m not very adaptable. I care if my sheets are scratchy or if the house is too cold or the pillows don’t smell right. I like my coffee in the morning, strong and straight up. I like peace and quiet. How could I know that a friend blasts “Die Fledermaus” at top volume from dawn to dusk?

You got it. I’m not an Airbnb aficionada. Self-awareness is critical. For example, I always loved the idea of marine biology, and I could definitely do an expedition . . . except for the claustrophobia, seasickness and mortal fear of sharks.

Nonetheless, this spring we decided to move out of our comfort zone. Granted, San Diego isn’t the Mariana Trench, but it was a first for us. We were invited by good friends to visit and stay over. Since we’ve been hosts so often to family and friends, we thought it would be fun to be on the receiving end of soft towels and fresh bagels.

We traveled with armloads of house gifts, which is the only way to go. On the way, we heard the news: It would be, of course, the hottest two days in San Diego history. Our hosts have no air conditioning. They say they never need it. They persuaded us that the fan in our room would circulate the 150-degree air so energetically that we’d require down quilts to sleep. A damn lie.

Our friend is a fantastic organizer and planner. On Day Two he arranged for us to go paddleboarding. How could he know that there’d be a 50-knot headwind blasting across San Diego Bay? How could he know that we’re lazy wimps with noodle arms, unsuited to paddling across a pond, no less a bay?

Thirty minutes into our 90-minute voyage, having made very little progress across the huge body of water and feeling quite desperate, I told my paddle partner a joke. He began to laugh, and the next thing I knew I was under water and the board was pressing down on my head. It took us some time to figure things out, but eventually we made it back to shore.

On the drive back to the condo, my host quietly opened a jar of peanuts and began munching. He had no way of knowing that the smell of peanuts makes me deathly ill.

Two weeks later, we visited another friend in her Massachusetts summer cottage.

It was, of course, the coldest weekend of May in the Northeast. How could we know our friend doesn’t have heat? She said she never needs it. When we arrived, she spoke enthusiastically of the effects of solar warmth, clearly not realizing that the sun is 92.96 million miles away.

She, too, planned an outing for us — a gut-churning motorboat ride through rough seas to a little-known island off the coast of South Dartmouth. Halfway there she asked if I get seasick, and I said yes. Trying to distract me, I suppose, and in an act of friendly generosity, she broke out some peanuts.

So we’re swearing off home stays.

But we still welcome houseguests here, even though the policy is not without its problems. Friends from out of state generally expect that we will “make plans.” They want bright lights, big city, so we feel obliged to arrange for shows and coveted dinner reservations. That isn’t our life, but we try to accommodate.

We have to vacuum up the dog hair and put out new bars of soap. We have to bring in their favorite breakfast foods and make sure we’re on their schedule, even if that means making coffee at 6 a.m.

But I find that it’s the rhythm of life that becomes the biggest issue. Think about how you are in your home space. Moving all the time, doing, turning the TV on and off, dashing in and out, taking a jog, running to the store, throwing something on the grill? Well, you and I aren’t compatible houseguests. I like to get my exercise over with early and then chill out, reading, writing, chatting, cooking or walking.

It’s not that I don’t love my friends and all their music-blasting, peanut-chomping behaviors. I just don’t want to live with them.

Copyright © 2016 Randi Kreiss. Randi can be reached at randik3@aol.com.