Here's a story on an Airbnb rental turning into a party.
How do you avoid this?
- Don't have short minimum stays. Generally, parties like this won't happen on longer term stays
- Don't just trust guest reviews on Airbnb! See the story below. She came with a glowing review from a previous host.
Do you have any tips? Please reply.
She was from the suburbs and had told our broker friend she wanted to stay the night in the city and hit the Boxing Week sales. She came with a glowing review from a previous host.
The next morning, at around 2 a.m., several people on our street were jolted awake by thumping music, screeching tires and drunken yelling. They saw scores of people on our front lawn, and a convoy of cars had parked up and down the street. Our tenant was hosting a rager that blazed to life as soon as the downtown clubs closed for the night. She’d even hired a DJ to set up a booth in our living room. Within half an hour, all of our neighbours were awake, texting each other about what to do. They emailed us, too. “There’s a massive party at your house with a sound system big enough for Downsview Park.” More texts and emails poured in over the next few hours. Wi-Fi being what it is in Cuba, we didn’t get them until we got to the airport.
Eventually, several neighbours called the police. When they hadn’t arrived by 4:30 a.m., one neighbour took matters into his own hands. He walked in the door and saw hundreds of people enveloped in a cloud of pot and cigarette smoke. “It was a giant hotbox,” he told us later. He asked to see the host and told her she needed to shut the party down right away. Three hundred guests and the DJ packed up and vacated our house, and by 5 a.m. the street was restored to its usual calm.
Two days later, we finally got the texts and emails. We stared at our phones in horror. There had been hundreds of strangers partying all night in our house. What damage had they done? I felt like I was going to throw up.
When we arrived home, we walked through the house, surveying the damage. Our broker friend had already removed several garbage bags full of bottles and other party flotsam, but the house still looked like a crime scene. There was a fist-size hole in the master bedroom wall, and the bathroom sink was dislodged from the backsplash. I also found cut marks across the marble countertop and cabinetry, and stiletto pockmarks in the floor. My clothing steamer was smashed, there were cigarette burns on the basement rug, and a closet wall was smeared with makeup. I saw a bottle of Playboy shampoo in the master bathroom—apparently one of the party guests had taken a shower. My daughter’s bed frame was broken into pieces. Everywhere I looked, there was something battered or broken. I felt a profound sense of shock and violation.