The trains are hot, the city is too big, and the architecture is a hodge-podge of new and old. It takes too long to get anywhere, the tube may actually have a line during rush hour, and everything costs 20 percent more than it should. That’s on top of the pound being 12 percent higher than the Euro and 30 percent higher than the dollar. But these were just the little annoyances. Why did I really hate my weekend away in London? The Airbnb provided my worst ever travel experience.
I booked late and the reviews weren’t the greatest. But I’ve stayed in all kinds of rentals, and it was most important that it was the cheapest I could find in a central neighborhood. So when I arrived, I knew I would have to make a stop a few stations away to the rental office to pick up the keys. With a 55-liter pack stuffed way too full, there are more fun things to do, but I didn’t have a choice. I get the keys, get back on the tube, and find my apartment.
First phone call to the office: I can’t get into the building. I see a keypad, but nobody gave me the code. I search the listing and all our messages before calling and find no code. They inform me the key fob gets you into the apartment. Oh, of course.
Second phone call to the office: I can’t get into the apartment. The key doesn’t work in the door because I’m at the wrong one. The flat number is apparently the address of the building, not the apartment, so I climb back into the elevator and find the room. So far, I’m just proving my ignorance.
The apartment is decent and as advertised at first glance. I have one room of four, and from what I can tell, there may be two other guests the first night I’m there. Doesn’t matter, I drop my things, lock my door, and take off to meet up with my friends for dinner. I get back to the apartment and go to use the restroom only to find the toilet is clogged. I go to the Airbnb app on my phone and write a message. “The toilet isn’t working. I think it needs to be looked at.” Minutes later, I realize it hasn’t sent. The app can’t load properly because my phone can’t connect to the Wifi in the apartment.
Third phone call to the office: The toilet is clogged and I can’t connect to the Wifi. I’d prefer not to talk too much at this point, as these phone calls are costing me, but I need to get this fixed. The response was “just jiggle the handle on the toilet, and find the wifi router and reset it to make it work.” Okay. That’s not really the help I was looking for, but thanks anyways.
I wake up the next morning and the toilet isn’t fixed, but it’s been made worse by the other tenants. I take a freezing cold shower because the temperature regulation is not working at all. It’s either freeze or be burned, and I choose the first option.
Fourth phone call to the office: The toilet still is not working and I’d really rather not spend money on these phone calls. I’m told by the worker that it’s too late in the day and Sunday, meaning it will be impossible to get someone out to the apartment to fix the toilet. They should have been told earlier about the toilet. I replied that I had called them about the toilet the day before. He replies, “Oh, but it wasn’t clear that it was broken. Because you always need to giggle the handle.” Well, sir, it’s broken, and do you really expect me to stay in an apartment without working facilities? I suggest that maybe he could offer me another place to stay and so he does.
I can’t believe I had to be the one to suggest a replacement apartment. He sends me links to some options. Of course, I would have to pack up my things, go to the office to exchange keys, find the new apartment, all when I have plans in the next 30 minutes with friends. Never mind trying, I attempted to open the links and look through the options but my phone wouldn’t load them and I had to respond that I would stay where I was. Not that I stayed in the apartment. In fact, for my next and last two nights in London, I stayed at my friend’s Airbnb.
Fifth phone call to the office: I choose to leave my stuff in the office for the last day, since the checkout time is nonnegotiable, of course. I’d read their messages stating 5 pounds per day with pickup options. I tell them I’d like to choose the option to leave my bag in the room and pick it up at the office in a few hours before my flight. Oh, that option costs 30 pounds. Ok, whatever. I’ll bring my bag to the office and pick it up myself before I leave. I’m absolutely not giving you any more money.
Second visit to the office: I drop my bag with the woman at the first desk. There are quite a few people around and it’s pretty crammed. I tell her that I expected more from their service and that the toilet, as of this morning when I left is once again broken and whoever worked on the plumbing also shut off the water in the shower. I suggest that it was unreasonable to expect someone to stay there, and that maybe she herself, should try just to understand how my stay was. “Oh, the toilet’s just like that, did you giggle the handle?”
Third and final visit to the office: I pick up my bag. I’m supposed to pay 5 pounds for this convenient service, but she lets me just walk out. Like I said, I’d already decided I was absolutely not giving them any more money.
Three nights I reserved a room and all three nights, the place was unlivable. And what bothered me the most? Every time I reached out, I asked for Emran. You know, the face and profile that accompanies an Airbnb listing. And every time, I was told I was speaking with an associate and they could help me. What’s the problem with Emran not being a real person? It means that every time you call, you talk to another person. And customer service is of the least important because they’ve got several properties to manage, sit back, and rake in money from. And not to mention, no one ever apologized, not once, not for anything.
When I returned home and after unpacking and cooling off a bit, I contacted Airbnb. ‘Contact’ isn’t really the right word, since like all customer service these days, you have to do a bit of legwork before you expect to talk to anyone about a problem. The legwork I did was requesting a refund for my trip. I requested a refund of 100 pounds, which left the service fee and about 10 pounds per night for storage. When you request a refund, it’s up to the property owner to grant that refund or offer a different amount. As you can imagine, he did not refund my 100 pounds, but offered 30 instead. This was for the Wifi, because all of my other complaints were unjust since they were things that were not advertised. As you may imagine, I’m a little baffled that this person thinks a toilet isn’t a necessity or is still unwilling to accept that the toilet wasn’t actually working.
So I dig a little deeper for an Airbnb contact and find an option for ‘missing amenities’. I’m going to assume this includes toilet, so I write. “The time period available to write a review has closed and I have some complaints about my experience. I’d like to request a larger refund than the 30 pounds that was granted and here’s why…” Low and behold, I get a response in a day. I can’t do anything about the toilet, the shower, the hairdryer, or the garbage. But I can give you a refund for the Wifi not working. Great, I’ll take it.
Customer service is becoming increasingly scary as it becomes increasingly computerized. That said, they found a way to make me happy, and for that, I’m forever grateful. Will I rent an Airbnb again? Oh yeah. Will I take more caution from reviews and be quicker to write my own within the time allotted? Yes. After my refunds, I was left with $52 to pay for my three-night weekend. And London feels just a tiny bit better because of it. Thank you, Airbnb.