You drive interstate to attend a sporting event and stay in a stranger’s house, booked by a mate as a homestay property.
You live in the house a few days. It’s functional, nothing flash. You breathe it in. Get a sense of the family that belongs there. Based on the suburb, the furnishings, the pantry, an occasional photo, the stained ceiling from the leaky toilet upstairs, you build a picture of their lives. A single mum. Teenage kids. Athletic.
They are not readers. There’s barely a book to be seen. Only two that I can spot.
Including one I wrote.
I think about signing it. “Hey, thanks, for letting me stay in your home.”
No. Too creepy.