My artwork was not on the walls, there was furniture missing, the glass panel on my staircase was shattered
“What’s the worst that can happen?” I thought when I put my house on Airbnb. While I didn’t have a warm feeling about strangers sleeping in my bed, I was intrigued by the idea. I was recently divorced and I bought my home, with three bedrooms and views of New York’s Hudson River, at the end of 2016. It represented a new chapter for me. Its contemporary architecture isn’t for everyone, but I was seeking to simplify my life. My two teenage boys stay with me half the time.
Last December, I put the house on Airbnb and rented it four or five times. The listing explicitly said no parties. Then a request came through to book the house for one night on New Year’s Day. It was from a young man, probably in his early 20s. He had one review but it was terrific. He told me he owned a small record label and wanted to use the house to get some Instagram shots. I’d had a model with the same request before, so it wasn’t unusual.
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