Close colleagues of mine will tell you I have honed a particular obsession/crackpot theory over the past few years: that Airbnb has been gently A/B testing me in real life.

Let me explain. I travel more than most humans should. As someone who runs their own company, and sometimes needs to spend more time in a location than is affordable via traditional hotel lodgings (such as with a recent relocation over the summer), I have made use of that darling of the sharing economy/scourge of communities (depending on which lens you look at it through), Airbnb, to stretch my budget, spend time closer to work, friends, clients, or just have company when traveling. I’ve stayed in over 30 properties, in something like eight countries, so I’ve had a lot of time to contemplate the company’s strategies from the inside.

The semi-serious theory started during back-to-back stays in the UK several years ago. My first three night stay was in a London borough, in a fairly cozy house owned by a couple with a toddler. It was comfortable enough, though a bit chilly in both bedroom and shared bath. The interior design wasn’t miles off my tastes, but it didn’t push any buttons of joy either, mostly catalog-standard late 20th century British home store. I never even sat down on the ground floor. The bits of media I saw around the house were mildly interesting, if predictable, but not must-reads or binge-viewable. I wasn’t really allowed in the kitchen, which was reserved for use by the family only. The wife of the couple has formerly worked in media on a cooking show, the husband in finance. I hardly saw either of them, as they made themselves scarce.