I registered Rhubarb House with AirBnB in the dark of January, raring to go after a holiday vacation Outside. I was fully recovered from the flu that bit me two days after I arrived in Atlanta. A dose of Tamiflu had zapped the bug nearly over night, and my ankle was mending after I sprained it in the collosal parking deck of a ritzy physicians’ building.
I was there as my sister’s designated driver to and from a routine senior procedure, and thank God she didn’t get the flu and have to postpone the thing. She did have to wait for a while in a wheelchair at the entrance of the building, because I was recovering from a swoon brought on by the pain of the injury. And then I still had to find the car. I appreciated the kind woman who brought a damp paper towel for my forehead and said she liked my coat. I had dressed up, sort of, being in the city, you know. If I had been wearing my hiking boots instead of prissy city shoes it wouldn’t have happened.
Anyway, back home in Homer, I started filling in the required information for AirBnB. “Two bedrooms, private bath , and lounge area in an owner-occupied, in-town residence in Homer, AK, halibut fishing capital of the world, cosmic hamlet by the sea, drinking village with a fishing problem, at the end of the road (U.S. Highway 1).” I’m still deciding which superlative to use.
The convenient in-town location is definitely a plus: “Within walking distance of the Pratt Museum, Bishop’s/Bishops/Bishops’ Beach [however it’s spelled], art galleries and shops, restaurants, bars that have live music nearly every night, and coffee shops, including Starbucks.” Homer may be the end of the road, but it’s not the end of civilization, and for some reason I feel that saying there’s a Starbucks in town proves that, even if it’s inside of Safeway and not my favorite place to enjoy coffee in Homer.
I note that there’s “a view of Kachemak Bay, a hiking trail at the end of the street, and that mosquitoes are not a problem” [here]. Before I make the listing visible to the public, I may add that the walk to reach the in-town fun is downhill, which means uphill coming back, with South Peninsula Hospital just two blocks beyond. I might mention bear activity in the trail area.
I describe the interior of Rhubarb House. That you “enter through the front door”; in other words, no private entrance for whatever purpose a guest might want that, though things seem to have changed enough that this probably isn’t much of an issue. I note that “guest quarters are on the lower level,” which could be a deal breaker if climbing stairs are a problem; that there’s “wi-fi, but no network cable television,” which implies that Rhubarb House is a place for folks who aren’t into Fox News.
The YOUR HOST information block is still empty, because I can’t figure out how to make myself as interesting as the other hosts of Homer. I am a cheechako who knows barely pea-diddly about Alaska and Homer. I can provide little more than basic directional information about the town and nearby points of interest, recommend restaurants, advise on moose safety, and identify with certainty two volcanos, one glacier, and Poot’s Peak. I don’t know jack about kayaking, fishing, and hunting.
I’ve described Leo and Rys as “two friendly indoor cats, ” and they’ll be at the door with me as I welcome Rhubarb House guests with a cheery “Hello! No! Welcome! Stop! Get back in here! Sorry. Come in. Hurry.” (To be continued)
Copyright 2015. Genie Hambrick
The Cheechako Diaries 