Well,  it finally happened. 

We’ve used AirBnB’s for years with amazingly good experiences.  Some truly fabulous accommodations—a gorgeous 19th century house in the Dordogne, a spectacular modern villa in Istria, a stunning apartment overlooking the Opera House square in Palermo, a fisherman’s cottage on an Irish bay. And dozens more great stays.  And never more than a minor problem checking in—and even that was very rare. 

This time was different.  

We flew to London from Seattle, traveling with another couple.  Three nights in London in transit to a month in Spain near Valencia. After going through customs and immigration at Heathrow, our travel companion checked her e-mail only to find out that the AirBnB she had booked for the four of us had been cancelled. The notification was sent to her while we were in the air. Panic, disbelief, anger, grudging acceptance, action. The five steps of travel grief. 

We had arranged a driver, Kevin, to pick us up at Heathrow and take us to a luggage drop (surprisingly—at a dry cleaners) near our now non-available apartment.  We had a very early arrival so we needed someplace to store the luggage until the 3:00pm check-in time.  The issue was where now to tell Kevin to go.  Fortunately, it’s a long drive into London so we had some time. We told him to go to the original drop off address until we found a new temporary home.  Kevin was a charming, upbeat fellow.  A talker. “No worries, mate!  London’s a big town— you’ll find something.”  

Three cellphones were in now in full operation.  Our friend was on the line to AirBnB customer service to find out what the hell had happened. (Note to self—always have that number for future rentals).  After several calls back and forth she discovered the property had been sold.  The lack of notification from the owner violated AirBnb policies. Small comfort to us.  Ironically, we had read an article several months ago describing this exact issue with short term rentals. As property values sky rocket in cities like London, the owners can make more money selling than continuing to do short term rentals. 

Now we had to find something fast. Really fast. Two of us were furiously checking other options.  Lots of discussion and passing of phones among the four of us.  Too small!  Too far from the center!  Too expensive!  Ugly!  But then, even before we hit central London, Eureka!  We found a new place, and booked it.  It was in Westminster near St. Vincent Square—15 mins walk from Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. Fit all the criteria we had laid out.

A second quick search  found a new luggage storage place close to our new home—a small postal services store. (Seems these luggage storage places are either in dry cleaners or private postal service shops.  Wonder why?) And Kevin delivered us there safe and sound.  AirBnB customer service transferred the payment to our new booking and provided a small discount for the inconvenience.  Actually, they were very helpful.  Done!

Thoroughout the drive into London, our cabbie had been reassuring and upbeat. London cabbies are a special breed.  The test to become a driver is actually a series of tests, mainly oral, that replicate the kind of nice or obnoxious, demanding person who might be a passenger.  The process takes at least 18 months, more commonly 2-5 years depending on the amount of time the person can devote to study.  As one cabbie told us, it may be easier to get a law degree. Most cabbies we have encountered are well versed on London history, know how to get to the most obscure addresses and are simply charming. 

Once quickly settled into our new home, we had three lovely days in central London. We took in the evening prayer service at Westminster Abbey (free and offered at 5:00pm in place of Evensong some days) to the lucky hundred or so who show up first) saw a West End play (recreation of the old Brit TV comedy, Fawlty Towers – delightful) strolled the south Thames river walk past Westminster through China town and the Green Park.

And we managed to catch a bit of a special London event we had heard about — rarely open sites of historical or architectural interest, (Open House Festival)  and toured two Belgrave Square historic mansions (one was the Argentine Ambassador’s residence). And managed to find some excellent pub meals. 

The housing crisis was a distant memory.

As the old cliche goes, “Handed lemons, make lemonade.”