What It’s Really Like to Host an Airbnb In Rural France (and Still Have a Will to Live)

It’s basically unpaid improv theater with cleaning supplies as your props.

Welcome to my glamorous world of hosting an Airbnb vacation rental in rural France, where there's the beautiful countryside, world-class restaurants, iconic French markets, pristine gardens, a cedar sauna, a jacuzzi with a view, and the constant threat of an early check-in.

It’s a relaxed, idyllic life. Wait, what?

“You must love it! Meeting people from all over the world!” they say.
Such a little amount of work for those big paydays. Drinks on the deck? Coffee by the pool?

Yes, it’s all that and more.

I love meeting strangers who clog my drains, rearrange the patio furniture into a summoning circle, and use every single towel in a 500-meter radius looks like they’re prepping for a biblical flood. Oh, and don’t forget the electric vehicles that arrive empty, confused, and silently judging.

So, let’s go behind the curtain. Here’s what actually happens when you run a guesthouse. No one ever talks about what it’s like to deep-clean a fridge while making cheerful eye contact with a child holding a pool noodle like a sword.

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Chapter 1: The Calendar Betrayal

Airbnb says the next guests will arrive tomorrow. You breathe. You have time. You might even sit down. Maybe you’ll have a Kir in the garden, listen to the ducks, check your Substack stats.

WRONG.

A car pulls in, parks in the wrong place, and now you're blocked in even if escape were possible. Luggage appears. Children emerge. Your stomach drops faster than the container of anti-algae that slipped into the deep end of the pool.

You check the app. You check your own sanity. You programmed a day in between. You know you did.

But no. Somewhere, somehow, it glitched. The guests have arrived. The previous guests are still inside, doing - well, who knows what, since they haven’t left the premises since last Tuesday. I even put a rock under their tire thinking that, just coincidentally, maybe they always left the property when I did.

Time stops.

You smile. You say, “No problem.”

You lie.

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Chapter 2: Cleaning on a Clock

You now have 3 hours to:

• Wash, dry, and iron 10 loads of linens

• Scrub 2 bathrooms

• Mop all floors

• Sandblast the oven

• Vacuum up a sandpit

• Reposition 47 chairs

• Apologize to the spider in the sauna

• Drain, clean, and refill the Jacuzzi

• Curse gently but with feeling

This is a high-stakes domestic obstacle course while performing the entire opening montage of a French remake of Rocky. You’re basically the Ethan Hunt of hospitality. Only sweatier. And you’ve lost the matching pillow sham.

And yet, you smile... you will say, “No problem.”

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Chapter 3: The Guest Questionnaire

New guests arrive with soft voices and kind smiles. You feel hope.

Then come the questions:

• “Is the hot tub chlorine-free?”

• “Are the ducks organically certified and do they have names?”

• “Does the sauna operate on lunar energy?”

• “Is the tap water filtered through volcanic rock?”

• “Can the hot tub be set to the Fibonacci sequence?”

• “Is the Wi-Fi ethically sourced?”

• “Will my electric vehicle charge faster if I chant in Latin?”

• “Can we feed the frogs? We brought organic mealworms.”

You nod. You smile. You google things under the counter.
You pray no one asks how to use the induction stove, because you still don’t know.

And yet, you smile... you will say, “No problem.”

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Chapter 4: The Towel Reckoning

You put out 8 towels. You get back 11.

One has been turned into a toga. One is in the freezer. One has disappeared entirely and is now presumed to be running a beach club in Ibiza.

Another is folded into a swan. And no one here knows origami.

We do not ask.

And yet... you will say, “No problem.”

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Chapter 5: Fleur’s (my dog) Memoir, Vol. I – Observations from the Garden

• Day 1: Stress Level Max. Loud humans have returned. I do not approve.

• Day 4: Guest child appears to be eating the landscaping. No one stops him.

• Day 7: Thunder comes. She panics. I protect.

• Day 9: Guest attempted to befriend me with ham. I took it. Loyalty can be rented.

• Day 10: The tall one asked if I was hypoallergenic. I am. To them.

• Day 13: They are still here. The blue floaty died a noble death.

• Day 14: They leave. I reclaim the land.

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Chapter 6: What They Don’t Tell You

By now, you’ve cleaned everything but your own soul, negotiated towel diplomacy, and rehomed an origami swan. But there are things no Airbnb manual will prepare you for:

• The jets in the jacuzzi will turn on by themselves at 2 a.m.

• Children wielding pool noodles have no mercy.

• Someone will ask if they can host a “small wedding” with 30 people next weekend.

• You will find a cherry pit in the bidet.

• You will consider burning the mattress rather than changing the sheets.

And yet... you will say, “No problem.”

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By this point, I’ve mopped, fluffed, refilled, restocked, soothed Fleur, Googled moon-powered saunas, and politely answered my 14th question about whether or not the pool is “electromagnetically balanced.”

But nothing, and I mean nothing. prepares you for the moment when the guests leave, and you open the door to do your final inspection.

That’s when I become less “host” and more “crime scene investigator.” Welcome to…

Forensic Airbnbology: A Guest Behavior Autopsy

You start to develop a sixth sense when you’ve hosted enough Airbnb guests. Not intuition exactly, more like a finely honed emotional damage radar. You walk into a just-vacated gîte, sniff the air (is that rosé and regret?), and scan the scene like a weary detective on her last case.

The clues are subtle: a fridge door left ajar, a tea towel wrapped around a corkscrew, a fork in the bathroom sink. Some hosts see mess. I see motive.

Let’s examine the evidence.

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Exhibit A: The Towel Massacre

Evidence: Eighteen towels. Four nights. All damp. None hanging.
Diagnosis: Acute fear of reusing fabric. Possible allergic reaction to towel hooks.
Recommendation: Host receives a medal for not screaming into the wardrobe.

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Exhibit B: The Pizza Identity Crisis

Evidence: Six pizza boxes in five days.
Diagnosis: Either a family of teenagers or one lone adult attempting to become pizza.
Guestbook Entry: “We loved cooking meals at home.”
Analysis: Lies. Or performance art.

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Exhibit C: The Puff Pastry Paradox

Evidence: Open Frig. Two packets of untouched puff pastry dough. One half-eaten avocado.
Diagnosis: A savory Mexican galette dream cut down in its prime. Possibly abandoned for Netflix and the Pizza Gang Kiosk.
Conclusion: Guest briefly attempted “French living,” then surrendered to grease and streaming services.

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Exhibit D: The Thermostat Tango

Evidence: Thermostat set to 29°C. All windows open. Fans placed in odd social formations.
Diagnosis: Classic guest spiral. Heatstroke meets confusion meets hubris.
Additional Clue: Guest texted, “Is the pool heated?” in the middle of July.

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Exhibit E: The Trashbag Trail

Evidence: Trash bins empty. But behind the curtain? A spontaneous sculpture of shrimp tails, cigarette butts, and rosé bottles.
Diagnosis: Guest confused “leave no trace” with “hide all evidence.”
Artistic merit: Moderate.

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Exhibit F: The Pet Denial Denial

Evidence: Dog hair on the linens. A mystery chew toy under the bed. Wet paw prints on the patio.
Booking Note: “No pets.”
Diagnosis: Emotional support schnauzer, raccoon in disguise, or a very bold imaginary friend.
Fleur's Reaction: Barked once. Disgusted. Walked off.

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Exhibit G: The Alcohol-Alibi

Evidence: Two full bags of empty beer bottles. One shattered wine glass in the hedge.
Diagnosis: Hydration, but make it frat.
Related Case: Magnums of rosé mysteriously vanish faster than I can say “please don’t drink in the pool.”

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Exhibit H: The Guestbook Gaslighting

Evidence: Entry reads: “Such a peaceful stay. So relaxing. We barely left the house.”
Meanwhile: The kitchen sponge is in the freezer, the fan is spinning in reverse, and someone tried to toast bread directly on the stovetop burner.
Conclusion: Textbook Hospitality Delusion Syndrome. No known cure. May be contagious.

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Final Report:

The scene has been cleared. The towels washed. The pastry dreams refrigerated and re-shelved. I live to host another day. Possibly even tomorrow. Because Airbnb guests never really check out, they just leave the evidence behind.

Bonus Chapter: Cultural Observations from the Front Lines

• The Dutch arrive with more bicycles than people.

• The British apologize for apologizing, then unplug every appliance “just to be safe.”

• The Americans want to know if foie gras is gluten-free and if the pool has an Instagram.

• The Germans check out at 10:00 a.m. sharp with military precision—folded towels, aligned forks, thank-you note with full weather analysis.

• The French? They don’t book. They show up.

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Conclusion

Why do I host?

Because I left Seattle for a Mamma Mia escapade.
Because I love the adventure. I love the humanity.
I love the international mystery of why every single guest moves the chairs.

I host because I’m a little unhinged.
Because someone needs to explain to the Dutch where the wine glasses are.
Because there’s something weirdly magical about hearing laughter echo off 400-year-old stone walls even if it’s followed by a splash and someone yelling, “Was that a frog?”

It’s not glamorous. The jacuzzi ghosts keep me up at night.
My dog is drafting her resignation letter.
And I’m on a first-name basis with the guy who cleans the pool filter.

But this is my kingdom.
My chaos.
My croissant-laced battlefield.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
(Except maybe a guest who reads the house manual.)