Bitte nur einzeln eintreten. Please enter one at a time, reads the A4 sheet protected by a Klarsichthülle—a transparent plastic sleeve—taped to the door of the Airbnb’s landing. Above the text, a stylized figure, like on road signs, black on a white background, trapped inside a red circle, holds up a palm to the viewer and, with a threatening air, commands: STOP! It’s the kind of signage you usually see at the entrance to construction sites—no entry for unauthorized personnel. This is the third informational sign I’ve read and I haven’t even made it to the apartment yet. On the little gate to access the building’s inner courtyard, there was another A4 sheet in a Klarsichthülle: Bitte das Tor immer abschließen—always lock the gate.
You reach the one room apartment by passing through an alleyway and a charming inner courtyard. The scattered plants are of various species, all well cared for. Then you climb an iron fire escape running along the building’s windows. There you find the second sign, taped to the exterior glass of the bathroom window. Needless to say, it’s printed on A4 paper and protected by a plastic sleeve. It reads: Nur eine Person auf der Treppe—only one person may be on the stairs at a time. The illustration shows two stylized figures, like those on road signs, and a staircase. The figure on the right is about to descend, moving right to left. Below him, on the opposite lower half of the page, there’s a second figure, who, before even setting foot on the first step, has been censored—struck out by two intersecting red lines, each about a centimeter thick, forming an X. I agree you can never be too precise, but the underlying motivation behind this storm of signs is not very clear to me. As for the iron staircase, maybe it was poorly welded and can only hold one person’s weight, or maybe, lacking a handrail, there’s a risk of falling from the formidable height of a meter twenty, maybe a meter sixty at its highest point? Safety first.
On the raised exterior landing, there’s another little garden, also very well kept. There are pots and little planters, and even a small vegetable patch. There’s a romantic bench and a picturesque little table, both made of oak. There’s a potted orchid—white with pink spots—and a brass-colored metal tag engraved with the pictogram of a lit cigarette, inside a red circle crossed by a diagonal line. NO SMOKING.
Opposite this little mise en scène is, finally, the front door. Upon entering, there are three doors; mine is the one on the left. Under the doorbell, a sheet of green paper is hung, this time laminated. With playful typography and in the form of a dialect nursery rhyme, it asks that, since it rains so often in this city, guests are requested to put their umbrella back in its place after each use.
At first glance, the bedroom is very tidy, and the lighting is just the right temperature. The overall atmosphere is impersonal, as you’d expect in a place of transit—a waiting room or an airport. When I close the heavy white door, I’m faced with a whole new set of signs: some are tacked to the inside of the door, impossible to decipher at a glance, others are scattered around the walls. Keine Kerzen oder offenes Feuer in der Wohnung—no candles or open flames in the apartment; the Wi-Fi password; various practical tips for your stay; a neighborhood map; house rules, etc.
The furniture is light wood, probably IKEA. These are standardized pieces that evoke exactly what they are. To the right is a dining table that strikes me the same way as when I hurriedly think of the word “table” and I picture a very bleak object—just that thing made of a thick board resting on four legs, stable enough to hold it, made of some kind of pseudo-wood, not yet fully defined. The same applies to the two chairs that go with it.
On the left, under the window, is a coffee table (on which there are yet more sheets covered in rules and instructions) with two rattan armchairs on either side. I’d like to linger on these a bit longer—they stuck in my memory, like a particularly brutal or bloody scene does. They’re a composite color, peculiar shades of brown alternating from vomit yellow to smog gray, passing through indecisive beiges and chestnuts. The frame of the armchair is dark solid wood, the backrest’s frame descends sinuously and manneristically toward the armrests, wrapping itself into an ugly, crushed spiral at wrist level, then continuing down to the floor. The seat material is hard to describe—the wicker weave looks wet and dirty. I don’t dare sit on them; as soon as I can, I toss all my clothes on top to hide them.
Opposite the door is the bed, behind which are two more windows. The gray curtains are all exactly the width of the frames—not a centimeter more, not a centimeter less. There’s only one blanket-pillow set, but there are two mattresses pushed together. A double room for single use. There’s a TV, of course—one of those 15-inch flat screens, more like a monitor, perched on top of a wardrobe, its only purpose to be present among the basic amenities.
The kitchenette and bathroom are in the basement, accessed by a massive wooden staircase very close to the bed. The cooking/pantry area is well-equipped, including a microwave, several coffee makers, two induction burners, fridge, kettle, cutlery, glass, and so on. The various trash bins for recycling are properly labeled.
In the bathroom, there’s a multitude of notices, signs, and labels—by now, I realize, they were inevitable. Here’s a classic: Um Toilettenverstopfungen zu vermeiden, bitten wir Sie, keine Hygieneartikel oder Fremdkörper in die Toilette zu werfen. Bitte verwenden Sie aussschließlich Toilettenpapier. In short, don’t throw anything but toilet paper in the toilet. Oddly enough, what the solo traveler is not warned about is that after two minutes in the shower, the bathroom and kitchen flood completely. The drain is clearly clogged.
Conclusion: a functional apartment, convenient for short stays, not recommended for people who don’t like to read.
(Cleanliness: 4 | Accuracy: 1 | Communication: 1 | Location: 4 | Check-in: 4 | Value for money: 2)