El Portico

An Airbnb Review

El Portico

The fractured redbrick sidewalk is a jigsaw puzzle of broken Camels and crimson tree petals. The dry Fall air penetrates our lungs and nostrils through our Boston Celtics COVID masks with a mixture of pollen, feces, and shawarma. “Did someone run over a small skunk with their person-powered lawn mower?” my companion remarks as we make our way through Cambridge Massachusetts’ Central Square and into its outlying territories. Aspiring to be true suburbia, these streets give up easily what the brownstones giving way to two-family, one family houses desperately try to hide. There is real danger here.

Trying to steel myself for what might be around the next corner of wrought-iron gated wildflowers, I reach into my backpack and ration off another handful of organic trail mix. Passing another church, I question my secular nature. “Are we on the right path?” My companion checks her GPS a fourth time for assurance and answers, “Two more streets.” My senses have been assaulted so many times on this Magazine street, I’m sure I’ve lived a million lifetimes. A side-street leading to more unknown destinies is a guaranty of disappointment and tragedy. Another empty, darkened restaurant warns us away. Where once there was music and laughter and the promise of over-priced food with exceptionally made drinks at a reasonable cost, there is nothing but a façade. The Green Street Grill is closed until further notice.

Soldiering on toward our fated end, we are startled by a disembodied voice. Electric, tinny, and demanding, it propels us. “In 60 feet, make a right.” We obey. We have no choice. We need to make it to El Portico by sundown. The Owner is waiting.

The pack on my back is aching. The straps seem to cut me like a knife. Burning sun is the blinding yellow house on the corner. The overly manicured lawn seems a piece of cheese on this mousetrap street. Knotty roots of half dead trees grab at our Keens as we struggle the final one hundred and fifty feet. El Portico.

The chipped painted handrails scratch my companion and I as we pull ourselves up the stairway to the entrance. Would these rickety, bowed, planks be the last four steps of our lives? Would our pessimism and abject fear be confirmed? Or would our bravery be rewarded with warm and enriching life-affirming experiences? We push open the door. We enter El Portico.

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La Sala

A child’s Razor greets us as we take our first steps into the claustrophobic front porch. There is no rider. What could the headless helmet portend? My companion and I stare into each other’s souls looking for the courage that neither has individually. Do we go on or back into the oblivion of dusk? I grip her hand. Rap. Rap. Rap. The choice is made. My companion puts her hand back in mine. Clammy sweat like the tears of the undead is my hand.

“You made it! Welcome!” Our presumed host beckons us in. The hidden prod from my companion melts my cold hesitation. “You guys find the place, ok?” Our vocal cords are Medusa stone. “I’m sorry. Force of habit. I’m still trying to get myself out of the old ways and into the new.” The madam of the house glides toward us. “Did he do it again?” admonishing her cohost. “Pronouns. Pronouns. Pronouns. He’s such a mister silly-pants. Please, come in.”

The settees are blood red. Black leather is the skin stretched over the housemaster’s throne. Its adjutant ottoman wheezes epithets at us in its stillness. “Let me take your bags.” Our limbs surrender our possessions despite the protests of our minds. “I’ll give you the tour while Mr. Silly-pants puts your things in the bedroom.” We submit.

The living area is pock-marked with odd totems and photographs of strange people. “This is the entertainment center. Full cable. Feel free to use our ROKU, as well. There’s a Nintendo Switch that you’re welcome to use. We play a lot of Mario Kart around here.” A bricked in fireplace supports a garishly large television. Its bricks are Wendigo white. The fireplace is empty and clean. It’s almost too clean. “Sorry, we don’t have any wood for you. The last few winters have been so mild we couldn’t justify having a full cord of wood dropped off. Having a fire seems more like decorative atmosphere than necessity.” Before we can ask any questions, we are escorted into the dining room.

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Salón Comedor

A long factory-weathered wooden table with dense limbs and an uncomfortable-looking bench lock away tales of gluttony and indulgence. The souls of too many bovine and fowl delicacies have been consumed here. Swamp green blinds accent the discount tchotchkes and afterthought wedding gifts strewn about the inlaid wooden shelves. The neglected saké set speaks to a lack of culture and a poorly veiled attempt to change that perception. “My mother-in-law is a Japanophile. She doesn’t drink but keeps gifting us these little cups. We don’t even really like sake,” Mr. Sillypants chimes in as he appears behind us. “Prior to having our son, we barely used this room. We used to eat in the living room. But, ya’ know, gotta’ do family dinner every night, now.” The child’s bedroom off the dining room is too impeccably kept to have been the receptacle of any juvenile laughter, recently. “He’s with his Grandmother. We’re going to meet them up there after we get you situated.” My companion shoots me a fearful look as I grip her hand tighter. The unpolished wooden floors creak as we cross the threshold into the kitchen.

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La Cocina

“This is where the magic happens,” Mr. Silly-pants’ excitement is

palpable as he speaks about the cramped cooking area we are led into. My eyes are drawn to the blood-red stain on the ceiling as my mind contemplates what terrible alchemy has transpired inside the four walls of this abattoir. “Sorry. I meant to clean that up. I got a little too excited by the hot sauce last night. I went to shake it up. Forgot the cap was off.” So many convenient answers.

“It’s a gas stove and oven. I can’t cook on electric. I guess, I’m old school. The front right burner can stick sometimes. There’s a lighter in that drawer over there if you need to get it going.” We quickly move on from the stain on the ceiling. “Feel free to use any of the oils or condiments in the fridge. That produce is fresh if you want to use it. It will go bad before we return.” We are shown the kitchen island. Half empty bottles of booze amidst dog treats and onions pronounce a much-used station in the kitchen. There is a disturbing lack of counter space. “Feel free to use the dishwasher. The tablets are under the sink.”

A quick explanation of a porta potty sized bathroom takes us to the bedroom.

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El Dormitorio

Garish yellow paint has been slapped on dry wall. Over-stuffed, slightly dusty bookshelves are evidence of disuse by the owners. An out of place desk in the back corner of the room explains the occupants need to be free of their prison. This apartment has become more of a work program than a home.

“This is the master,” Silly-pants chuckles nervously. “The bed is fairly new and comfy. It’s not much of a tour, I know. Its more about the location than anything else, here. We left a list of numbers and restaurant suggestions on the desk. You have our emails and phone numbers. Don’t hesitate to use them if you need anything. Enjoy yourselves!” Mercifully, these ghosts of people make their way to whichever plane they might inhabit next. Spent and exhausted, I crash onto the queen-sized bed. Sleep begins to fold me into its cake-batter like arms. Before I can be fully enveloped, an accusation comes from my companion. “Dude, it's only four o’clock in the afternoon.”

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“You really think that’s what other people would think of our house?” my wife asks me after I’ve voiced my concerns about turning our apartment into an Airbnb. “What? Too dramatic?”