My Airbnb Came With an Unexpected Friendship—and a Flight
The first thing I noticed when we arrived at our Airbnb was the scent. Damp cedar, fresh earth, and air so crisp it felt almost medicinal. It was a stark contrast to New York City, where I'd spent months suffocating under deadlines, racing between crowded subway cars and cramped coffee shops, chasing a sense of accomplishment that never quite felt like enough. Nicole and I had carefully planned this trip, driven by mutual burnout and the growing sense that something important was slipping through our fingers. It was our quiet rebellion, plotted in exhausted late-night texts.
We lingered in the car for a moment, not quite ready to break the quiet spell. Just beyond the wooden trellis, flowers spilled over the edges of a carefully tended garden, framing a wraparound porch dotted with inviting rocking chairs.
Inside, sunlight stretched lazily across wooden floors. The air smelled like fresh coffee and cookies. Our host, Rick, greeted us with easy warmth. His kindness caught us off guard, a stark contrast to the clipped, transactional exchanges of city life.
Because of our remote jobs and the time difference, we’d start working early each morning beneath the pergola, laptops balanced on our knees, coffee steaming quietly in mismatched mugs. By midday, we’d wrap up, leaving us free to explore Olympic National Park. The dense rainforest, muffled in moss and ferns, unraveled our tension. Steep climbs left us breathless but clear-headed. Every hike felt like an undoing of the stress we’d carried west.
One afternoon, I wandered into the barn and found Rick grinning, a pair of lobsters dangling from his hands. “For Nicole,” he announced, then tossed me a bag of sun-warmed blackberries with a smirk. “And for the vegetarian.” His teasing was affectionate, never mocking. It became an easy camaraderie that settled into our days.
Neither Nicole nor I had grown up with this kind of paternal warmth. Our families were complicated, marked by absence and quiet estrangements. But Rick, in his unassuming way, filled that gap without effort. His small gestures—checking if we needed anything, making sure the fire was warm enough, leaving out extra blankets—spoke with a kind of unspoken generosity we’d learned not to expect. At some point, half-jokingly, we started calling him Grandpa Rick.
Evenings stretched long by the fire, s’mores crackling between sticky fingers and quiet laughter. Rick shared pieces of his life without embellishment. He spoke openly about past struggles, three failed marriages, and the long road to sobriety. He talked about regret without being weighed down by it, about rebuilding without dramatics. Now, he was happily married to his fourth wife, though we never met her; she was away on a work trip. “Took me a while to get it right,” he admitted with a laugh. “But I finally did.”
Driving back from a hike one afternoon, we passed a barn with a small plane inside, sunlight glinting off its wings. Almost without thinking, I mentioned that I’d always wanted to photograph one. Years ago, I’d even applied to be a Navy pilot before logic talked me out of it. Rick’s face lit up. “My son’s a pilot. He’s in town. Bet he’d take you up.” I blinked, stunned. I’d only wanted a picture, not to brush against an old dream.
The next morning, stepping into the tiny Cessna felt surreal. The plane hummed to life, excitement swelling in my chest. Rick placed a hand on my shoulder, his voice barely audible over the engine. “You’ll love it.”
And I did. From above, lakes glittered like scattered mirrors. Endless green stretched in every direction. City worries shrank to nothing. It wasn’t just the view that moved me. It was the shift in perspective, the reminder that so much space still existed beyond the life I knew.
After we landed, Rick embraced his son, murmuring something I couldn’t quite hear. But I didn’t need to. The ease between them, the quiet pride in Rick’s face, said everything.
A year later, Rick and I still exchange the occasional message. Holiday greetings, friendly check-ins. And when Brooklyn feels especially tight, Nicole and I joke about heading west for another dose of Grandpa Rick’s quiet wisdom. But beneath the joke is something simple and true. Sometimes travel isn’t about dramatic revelations or grand adventures. Sometimes it’s about unexpected kindness, a borrowed perspective from above the trees, and someone reminding you in their own quiet way of everything you’ve been missing.