I consider curiosity a gift. The ability to ask the right questions at the right time can open up one’s world view to new perspectives and ideas. But even more importantly, zooming in on the relevant issues early can save a lot of hassle.
Being inquisitive is good, but there is, of course, a fine line between nosiness and by corollary, rudeness, and I consider myself an astute reader of where that line is drawn. However, there are many, including those in my family, who are reticent to test the boundaries, and this is where trouble can arise.
After a year studying abroad, Molly came home for three weeks, and then flew back across the Atlantic for an internship in London. Because she’s been independent for so long, I assumed that when she was looking for a place to live, she would ask the right questions.
Never assume, especially when it comes to your young adult children. Five weeks is an awkward period of time. Who has an apartment to rent for that uneven interval? A hotel is too expensive, and we do not anyone well enough to say, hey sistah, can you spare a couch?
Don’t worry, said the girls. Airbnb is great and we’ve got lots of friends who have really had great luck with it. For those of you unfamiliar with Airbnb, it’s the latest concept in world travel. People rent out extra space in their homes to others who want to experience something other than a hotel or hostel. It’s social media-based and the connections are made through forums like Facebook. Usually for a short-term stay, you can pay via credit card to live in a castle, a farmhouse, a cottage, or, in Molly’s case, a flat in London for five weeks.
It’s a great concept but not so great a reality, at least, for us. Molly found what appeared to be the ideal living arrangement. A beautiful, airy, light room (they are always beautiful, airy, and light) in a flat in the exclusive Notting Hill section of London. Perhaps we half expected Hugh Grant to come grinning around the corner like he does in the movie of that name. The pictures online showed a smiling girl who owned the place, and she told Molly that four other students lived there. She even had a spare guitar so Molly would not have to lug her own across the ocean.
This is where the ability and willingness to ask the right questions would have been handy. For example, I see you have two cats. Are they allowed free range of the house, including the room I will be renting from you? I see you have some roommates who are students. Where are they from and where are they studying? How old are they? Do they smoke? I see from the pictures that the flat and my room are beautiful? Is that the room you will actually give me?
I am being a little bit facetious about asking the right questions, because of course, no one would ever ask some of them. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not kicking myself for asking the right questions myself instead of leaving the job to my 20-year-old. Because, as you can guess, it was a disaster.
The first indication was when Molly called me right when she arrived. She was crying as she whispered, “Mom, this place is nothing like the pictures. I don’t like it here.”
After my heart thudded back into my chest, I said, “Molly, are you safe? Is somebody with you? Do you need to get out of there?” I had visions of the movie “Taken” and wondering if I needed Liam Neeson to kick in the door and rescue her.
She told me she was safe, but she was not getting a good vibe. The house was dirty. Her hostess was traveling, the door had been opened by one of the male roommates, and everyone in the house seemed to know each other; they had come together from Lithuania. They were not the college students she had envisioned, but then, she hadn’t really dug deeply into the questions. And neither had I.
I told her to take pictures to document her issues with the apartment. One picture in particular told a thousand words. It showed her bedspread with clumps of cat hair. There were other spots that I hoped were not bedbug stains. Welcome to London? Not so much. And we were paying a pretty penny. Other pictures showed packs of cigarettes, shredded carpet, and kitchen tiles coming up around the refrigerator.
We got on the 24/7 hotline with Airbnb, reported the issue, and then Molly bolted to a hotel. The only glimmer of humor I found was picturing the look on the faces of everyone in the house when they discovered that their new house guest was nowhere to be found.
Long story short: Airbnb paid for one night at the hotel, and helped her find a new place. We got a refund and a few hundred dollars in compensation for our trouble.
Lessons we both learned: always ask the right questions, and as a parent, never assume that your child is asking them. I feel bad for dropping the ball, and I also learned that as independent as you think your child has become, she is still your baby and you have to do your homework thoroughly. All is well that ends well, and hopefully this part of the story is done and a whole new beautiful chapter is beginning.
