I would rather have a mind opened by wonder than one closed by belief.
~Gerry Spence
June 2016. I am driving on Highway 75 west of Atlanta. My wife Carolyn and I (both sixty-eight) are on our way to check out Tellico Village, a retirement community south of Knoxville. I am worried. I’m fine with our plans to move from our home in Florida. That’s not the problem. The problem is that we booked two nights in a private home through one of those Internet home-sharing services.
“Why not stay at a motel like we usually do?” I had asked Carolyn when she first brought up the idea a month ago.
“This place is located right in Tellico Village,” she said. “We’ll be staying with someone who lives there and can give us an insider’s view.”
“A stranger. What if we don’t get along with her?”
“We will. Her name is Jo Ann, and she’s got great reviews.”
“Wouldn’t a motel be cheaper?”
“No. This place costs less, and we have kitchen privileges, so we’ll save on meals too. Besides wouldn’t it be nice to try something different for a change?”
I diplomatically chose not to answer her question. If I did, the answer would have been No. I value my privacy and the idea of staying in a stranger’s home does not appeal to me at all. But I knew I had already lost the argument.
Our GPS leads us more efficiently than I would have liked to the front door of our host’s home. If I could drag my feet outside the car to slow us down, I would. But here we are in a neighborhood of beautiful homes. Jo Ann has a lovely single-story house, well landscaped and with two large white rockers waiting on a porch festooned with flowers. The house is dark inside. It is 4:00 p.m., the exact time we said we would arrive.
“So where is she?” I ask. I have a hint of “I told you so” in my voice. “Didn’t she confirm our arrival time?”
“Yes,” says Carolyn. She rings the doorbell. No answer.
As I dial Jo Ann’s number I think: This wouldn’t have happened if we had booked a motel like we usually do. Jo Ann answers. She apologizes for not being here to greet us. She says she has been trying to reach us to let us know she is attending a church activity this evening. She tells me to look under the cushion of one of the porch rockers for the house key and garage door opener.
“Just park your car in the garage and make yourselves at home,” she says. “Your bedroom and bathroom are located behind the kitchen, but feel free to use the living room, television, and back porch.” She tells me that she cleared a shelf in the refrigerator for us and that she will be coming home late.
I am relieved. For the next several hours, we have a home away from home. The house is gorgeous, modern, immaculate, and tastefully furnished. We unpack and go for a walk around the neighborhood. The neighbors we meet outside their homes greet us and are happy to tell us their experience living in the Village. One gentleman tells us how smart we are for staying at Jo Ann’s house so we can experience the neighborhood firsthand.
After a home cooked dinner, we watch the news and go for a drive to the lake to explore. In the evening we relax on the screened-in back porch. At 10:00 p.m. I hear a key turn in the door. Jo Ann is back.
Jo Ann is a gracious and welcoming host. She apologizes again for not meeting us when we arrived. She pours herself a glass of wine and offers some to us. We have a forty-five minute conversation about how she came to the Village several years ago, the growing pains of the Village, and her experience selecting a lot and building her house. She offers to put us in touch with a neighbor who is a Realtor if we decide to build or rent a home. We learn things about the Village from her that we would never have learned had we stayed at a motel. When she says good night, she informs us that she will not be home the next day. She says she likes to give guests as much privacy as possible.
“Just put the keys and garage door opener under the rocker cushion when you leave,” she says. “Come back for another stay any time.”
What little anxiety I have left vanishes. I couldn’t have imagined a better stay. We make ourselves at home for the rest of our time. I kick myself for being so reluctant to try this. I worried so needlessly.
That summer we book several more stays in people’s homes in three states: Tennessee, Wisconsin, and New York. Every stay works out wonderfully. Now whenever we travel, this is one of the options we consider. But if I hadn’t endured the anxiety of “trying something different for a change,” we would still be staying at impersonal motels. And we may not have moved to Tellico Village, where we are now living, pleased with our decision.
— D.E. Brigham —
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