Airbnb Reviews For Famous Homes In Literature
1 star for 4 Privet Drive.
Cabin on Walden Pond
One word: transcendental. A perfect place to bathe in solitude. One morning, I looked out over the pond and saw the sun reflecting off the water and I understood that the water, the light, the earth, me, we're all on a continuum—there is no end to it and no end to me. I realized I do not need the many contrivances I tinker with; I do not need my ex-boyfriend, Allan. I only need my hands and my mind and the earth underneath my toes. And maybe some alcohol. And, I suppose, a Netflix subscription. And, of course, money.
4 Privet Drive
Accio my weekend back. The hosts put me in a cupboard under the stairs and asked me suspicious questions about owls. On my second day, I exited the cupboard and found the younger host waiting for me. He asked if I was "waiting for [my] letter." I was like, "What?" He asked me how old I was, and when I replied, "30," he said, "Never mind, you're too old." Rude.
On arriving at the grand estate, my heart did whisper that I had found somewhere incomparable—but, alas, my heart did also whisper that I missed Allan. He would have loved to walk through the gardens and dance in the great halls. What folly that we ended our relationship! He was ever slightly too daft and I, too judgmental. Oh well, la la la, the teas I had during my stay were splendid. It's fine.
Impossible to find! And not because I have a terrible sense of direction, ALLAN. I mean, how many Oxfords are there?! You better believe that when the dust settles, I'm getting my money back.
The Ramsay Summer Home
A delightful summer home with quaint rooms and gorgeous views. From my window, I gazed upon a lighthouse and thought to myself, Tomorrow, I shall go to the lighthouse. But then a terrible worry came over me, that the winds would be too strong, and that I should not venture out. And then I thought: how can I ever really know anyone?
221b Baker Street
Worst place ever, case closed. I never met the host, but judging by the cast of characters who knocked on the door, the omnipresent smell of smoke, and the skull sitting on the coffee table, I can only deduce that he is some sort of drug dealer. I also didn't see any recycling bins. :(
Forget that this place is creepy and empty and haunted. Let's talk about the host. Helloooo, tall, dark and handsome! When I confronted him about the sexual tension between us, he told me he was "otherwise taken." And I said, "By whom? That old bag of bones in the attic? Yea, I figured it out." I'm waiting for him to return my calls…
The clocks didn't work and I felt, all at once, a victim to time and age and not being married. If my next boyfriend — let's just call him Mr. Rochester — favors me, should I love him? If he wounds me, should I love him? If he tears my heart to pieces, should I love him still? And as my heart grows older and stronger, and that ensuing tear all the deeper, should I love him, love him, love him? Sigh. Idk.
The accommodations were so cozy and comfortable, perfect for napping all day—but also, paradoxically, perfect for creating an insatiable thirst for adventure. The only thing I did not appreciate was the host's constant attempts to feed me. Eggs, potatoes, pickles, raspberry jam, cheese, chicken, cakes—all of it, he tried to shove down my throat while prattling on about second dinners. Ummm, what?! I finally had to sit him down and tell him that I've had trouble eating due to recent heartbreak and did not appreciate being pressured. He apologized and we hugged it out.
Cons: Cold. Very, very cold. Like, winter is coming. Unpleasant conversations about wars and who everyone's mothers are. Felt like I might die at any moment. Zero vegetarian options.
Pros: Posing with a sword makes for some great Instagram pics. Lots of single men. LOTS. I believe I've found a new boyfriend. He's rugged, trained to follow orders, and knows all about commitment. So take that, Allan—and Mr. Rochester.