Be my guest! Or, on second thought, kindly refrain.

I’ve come to realize that I care not for hospitality.  I don’t like being a guest.

This sense is fed by my adherence to the so-called Golden Rule, along with an unhealthy dose of what the shrinks call “projection”: since having guests myself makes me uncomfortable (to put it mildly), therefore I do not wish this discomfort on others — even, and this is odd, if I’m paying for it.

I do okay in a chain hotel, where check-in and -out are performed by anonymous, bored desk clerks, but even there I cringe whenever I encounter one of the housekeeping staff.  I feel guilty when someone else cleans up after me.  Just show me where the supplies are, and I’ll scrub and vacuum and change the linens.  Um, and you can lower my bill, too, please.

Just now I am attempting to venture into the strange world of VRBO — that’s Vacation Rentals By Owner.  Some enterprising couple owns a cabin or a condo or a tiki hut igloo, and they hire it to strangers — guests — by the day, week, or month.  Lovely.

So “Danny and Shirley” put up a website with a phone number, and I’m supposed to call these people and arrange a vacation on their property.  In principle, it’s not that different than the aforementioned Wingate Inn or whatnot; but in practice, I can’t help the enormous amount of trepidation that I must toss and turn through tonight until their office opens in the morning at eight.

I should stop here and clearly state that my aversion to having guests does not spring from a dislike of the people themselves, nor from a necessarily selfish mindset.  I’m just particular about my space and my routine, and even the most wonderful and meek guests as there could ever be will inevitably crowd one and obliterate the other.  It follows that I stand no chance of avoiding doing the same when the situation is reversed, even if I am the meekest.

How do I vacation at all?  Museums, amusement parks, theatres, restaurants, and so many other places require one to be a guest.  The one exception I can name is national public land.  As a citizen, I belong to it and it belongs to me.  In the wilderness, I am a guest of the creatures, and we give each other space.  Routines are made of seasons and tides; and I could not disturb them if I tried.

However, to get close to the only places I feel comfort outside my own piece of real estate (bonus: no neighbors), I must visit an established guesthouse of some sort.  Backcountry camping is not an option for my wife and toddler.

Of course I know that staying in a VRBO is not inversely analogous to having people stay in one’s home.  The owners aren’t there at the time (at least, yikes, I hope not).  So, in the morning I will call “Danny and Shirley” and see if they will let me be yet another in a long line of human intrusions that they allow to stomp all over their idyllic plot of Earth.  And I will pay for some poor soul to mop up my greasy, slovenly mess.  And I will be polite and I will enjoy my surroundings and I will relax and have fun.

But I know that I will be glad to get back home.