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 nothing like New York City, where I'd spent months racing between crowded subway cars and cramped coffee shops, suffocating under deadlines. Nicole and I had been talking about getting out of the city for weeks. We were exhausted, and this trip felt overdue.

The property was tucked into the woods, flowers spilling over a garden that framed a wraparound porch with rocking chairs. Inside, sunlight stretched across wooden floors. The air smelled like fresh coffee and cookies. Our host, Rick, greeted us with easy warmth. After months of clipped city exchanges, his kindness caught us off guard.

Because of our remote jobs and the time difference, we'd work early each morning beneath the pergola, laptops balanced on our knees, coffee steaming in mismatched mugs. By midday, we'd wrap up and head into Olympic National Park. We hiked through dense rainforest, thick with moss and ferns, wearing ourselves out on steep climbs. It felt good to tire out our bodies and let our minds go quiet.

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."

Neither Nicole nor I had grown up with this kind of paternal warmth. Rick filled that gap without trying. At some point, we started calling him Grandpa Rick between ourselves, never to his face, but it stuck.

Most evenings we sat by the fire making s'mores. Rick would talk about his past. Three failed marriages, the long road to sobriety. Now he was happily married to his fourth wife. We never met her—she was away on a work trip. "Took me a while to get it right," he said with a laugh. "But I finally did.

One afternoon on the drive back from a hike, we passed a barn with a small plane inside, sunlight catching its wings. I mentioned offhand that I'd always wanted to photograph a plane like that. Years ago, I'd even applied to be a Navy pilot before talking myself out of it. Rick's face lit up. "My son's a pilot. He's in town this week. I bet he'd take you up."

I was stunned. I'd only wanted a picture.

The next morning I found myself climbing into a tiny Cessna. "You're gonna love it," Rick said, barely audible over the engine.

From above, lakes glittered like scattered mirrors. Endless green stretched in every direction. The city felt like a distant planet, and I wanted to stay up there forever.

When we touched down, I had to stop myself from asking to go back up. I climbed out of the plane and watched Rick pull his son into a hug, saying something I couldn't make out. I didn't need to hear it. The ease between them said enough.

A year later, Rick and I still exchange the occasional message. And when Brooklyn feels especially tight, I think about heading back. Not for any grand reason. Just to sit on that porch again, maybe catch another ride in that Cessna, and remember what it felt like to see things from up there.