My mountain town is a vacation destination, and we have a tiny house on our land that we rent out via Airbnb, usually for longer stays. Lately, most of our guests have been remote workers who stay for a month or two at a time, then move on.
The problem is that I’m beginning to resent them. I’m a friendly person, and I always offer to show them around on the first day or two—but after that, it feels like some of the guests expect me to be their friend for the duration of their stay. For instance, one woman kept joining me when I was walking my dog in the mornings. We had some great conversations, and I liked her, but I find it frustrating and disheartening to put a lot of time into building a relationship with someone who’s going to leave. (Still, this is much better than the other side of the coin, which is guests who are disrespectful. One guy literally vomited in our hot tub.)
This town has had a big influx of remote workers since the pandemic, and not all of the locals like them. Technically, I work remotely too, but I’ve been here for over a decade and plan to stay forever, so it’s not like I’m just here for a few weeks before jetting off to the next “authentic” destination. However, the fact that I didn’t grow up here myself makes me particularly sensitive to the idea that these new visitors are giving all outsiders a bad name. How do I avoid projecting this resentment onto guests in our cabin when I know that they usually mean well, and haven’t actually done anything wrong?
It sounds like you care deeply about where you live: you found your way there, bought a house, and plan to stay for the rest of your life. This is your home. Of course it stings to see outsiders disrespect it—and not just that, but treat it as disposable, as one more trendy destination for their list. Somewhere to come, explore, take photos, and leave, all without changing the course of their lives. They even have a built-in friend—you—that they can dispose of just as quickly when they move on.
I don’t know if this is an accurate representation. But I can see how it feels that way.
You’ve done the work to learn this place, and it’s frustrating to see other people who just…don’t try. Or, worse, don’t care. As if the work you did doesn’t matter. As if outsiders can never really fit in. As if locals—your neighbors, your friends—will look at you and see them.
In fact, I think it’s the other way around.
This is your home. Of course it stings to see outsiders disrespect it—and not just that, but treat it as disposable, as one more trendy destination for their list.
Compared to these short-term visitors, you’re as local as they come. You’re committed to your town; your roots grow deeper by the year. You volunteer at the library and the local fire department. (Or if you don’t, you should—not at the library and fire department, necessarily, but you should be involved in local projects and institutions, in whichever form you choose. That’s how communities take care of themselves, and you’re part of this one. You should give back to the place that takes care of you, too.) Your Airbnb guests throw up in someone else’s hot tub, then run away. One of these things is not like the other.
Let’s talk for a moment about what it actually means to be local—and what it means to be on the fence, unsure of which side is yours. You clearly value feeling connected to your town, so you should respect the people who have lived there longer, for decades, generations, or more. Their history means something. It has, in many ways, shaped the place you’ve come to love. That doesn’t make you inferior, but it should make you grateful. That said, there will always be people who want to rub in your outsider status simply to be rude, or as a patch for their own insecurities. So your goal, when it comes to local clout, should be practical rather than universal. Do you feel at home? Have you found your people? If so, opinions beyond that don’t matter. Haters might hit a sore spot, but that doesn’t mean they’re right.
Now, what to do about guests who want to be friends?
You can be warm but not open, friendly but not inviting; there are ways to make clear that you’re around when your guests need help, but that help does not extend to companionship. That said, if you’re feeling social and have the time, there’s no harm in hanging out, as long as you keep your expectations realistic. These people will be leaving. Their agenda is different from yours. They’re looking for a nice week, not a new best friend. And if you do hit it off, remember that even a short friendship can be beautiful. You might lose touch, but you’ll leave each other changed.
Maybe someday a guest will fall in love with the place. Like you, they’ll recognize home when they find it. Like you, they’ll put down roots. If that happens, I hope you’ll welcome them as you wish you were welcomed, or as people welcomed you.
And until then, if someone throws up in your hot tub, charge them a hell of a cleaning fee.
writes our Tough Love column. She lives in a mountain town, too—kind of. Her town is called Mountain, but it’s completely flat.