Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
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By nature, I am unobservant. I walk with my head down, lost in thought, occasionally reminding myself to look around. I am rarely aware of my surroundings. If you asked me about the details of a walk – the trees I passed, who I greeted – I could offer few specifics.
But that all changed three years ago when the family next door moved to a distant city, leaving behind a five-bedroom furnished house they converted into an Airbnb.
I am surprised to meet the person I’ve become. A curtain pusher. A busybody. A snoop. The self-appointed captain of Neighbourhood Watch.
Mostly, I see myself as a surveillant of the house next door: no car in the driveway means I’m off duty. Cars in the driveway suggest attention is needed. A limo dropping off 10 to 12 people or a large U-Haul truck carrying six or more indicates a need for sharp vigilance.
I grew up on a remote farm in northern Saskatchewan. It was always exciting when a car or truck turned into our driveway, whether a traveller lost their way, a neighbour stopping by to share gossip or, best of all, the Watkins Man with his suitcase full of fragrant samples.
I recognize that long-ago rush of anticipation when a new guest arrives at the Airbnb next door. Mostly, we don’t talk, but sometimes we’ll meet on the sidewalk and say hello. “Where are you from?” I might ask. “Florida,” was one reply. “We’re exploring Canada.” “Have a great trip,” I say, and go on my way.
My surveillance team is imperfect. Jude, my grandchildren’s dog, who often stays overnight, is an enthusiastic member. The recliner by the window is her lookout. However, she’s unreliable. She barks at Airbnb guests and she barks at squirrels, magpies, elderly folks on afternoon walks, schoolchildren and leashed dogs walking their humans. I want to train her to bark only at Airbnb guests. My grandkids told me, “Bad Baba (a term of endearment that embraces my Ukrainian heritage and unconventional grandmothering), you know Jude can’t be trained. We’ve tried for five years.” But I haven’t lost hope.
The retired couple on the other side of the Airbnb operate as Independents. Occasionally, we get together and gossip in the privacy of our homes to exchange information. I shamefully envy the side window of their living room, which offers an unobstructed view of the Airbnb sunroom.
When the owners of the Airbnb left, they gave me a business card with contact information for William and Kelley, the property managers who live in a city 300 kilometres away. Surprisingly, they can be counted on.
One summer weekend, a limousine pulled into the driveway: (danger, danger) expelling at least 10 people and some children. Next, a truck delivered chairs and tables. The following afternoon, a three-piece band set up in the driveway. Soon, the street was crowded with partygoers. My phone rang. It was William. He was monitoring the driveway with the doorbell camera. “I counted 70 people,” he said. “Yeah, it’s a lot.” I responded. He hung up. Within 10 minutes, the music stopped. Soon, the party was over. William had changed the door code remotely, locking out the partiers. He gave them two hours to pack up.
In the summers, since Airbnb became my neighbour, I choose when to garden in my backyard and avoid eye contact with guests. A chain-link fence separates us, and at first, I often interacted with Airbnb guests. Until one day, a guest leaned over and offered a handshake while circling his pointer finger in my palm. When I looked up its meaning online, I learned that this handshake signalled a sexual advance. I now believe that high wooden fences make good Airbnb neighbours.
My surveillance role sometimes offers opportunities for concierge services. One morning, as I was leaving my house, a man from the Airbnb came racing out the front door. “Hi, have you seen my cat?” In fact, I had. The furry cat arrived on our doorstep the night before, meowing forlornly. I served him a can of tuna. He sniffed and then scampered down the street.
The next morning, I got a text from my neighbour, Jane. “I have a big brown furry cat in my basement. He’s in our dog cage. Know who it belongs to?” Soon, cat and human were reunited.
The driveway next door has been unoccupied for several weeks. I have mixed feelings: disorientation, restlessness and relief. But wait. I hear car doors slamming. I push the curtain. Yes, new guests with many suitcases. Duty calls.
Constance Barlow lives in Calgary.