The Cheapest Airbnb in Austin — A Review

by James O. and Peter B.

The second time we stalled out in freeway traffic, we knew we weren’t getting to Big Bend. It was a 30°C day in Central Texas and we were cruising in eight lanes of F150s and transport trucks. I tapped the brakes, and the car shuddered, and died. I looked at James. Oh shit. I looked at the dash. All the lights were off. Oh shit. Our mouths hung open, lips frozen in two big, silent Os. Then I swerved the car right, into the wall of semis.

Check In (Peter)

We had arrived in Austin the night before; among Airbnb’s crowded listings we’d found Camp EZ, run by an old cowboy named Jim O. A hot shower, a sauna, and a spot for our tent in South Congress, for $15 a night. At the time I was living in my car and driving across America, and James had flown down to meet me in New Orleans the week before. The plan was to stay the night in Austin, then beat it south, following the Mexican border west to Big Bend National Park.

The car, a 2007 Subaru Outback automatic I’d bought for $1800, was shitfucked. Fresh out of the mechanic in Galveston (after a wheel nearly fell off), we’d stalled out on the nine-lane Gulf Freeway coming into Houston. We got lucky: I cranked the key, pumped the gas, and the engine sputtered to life, just enough to trundle down an off-ramp and call AAA. 

We’d limped the Subaru through the night, so caught up in the state of the car that it almost took us by surprise when we finally found ourselves pulling onto Wasson Road, a hidden offshoot of trendy South Congress Avenue in south Austin, and crunching into the gravel parking of Camp EZ.

Past the wooden gate (bearing a large private property sign), a snaking path led to a dirt pavilion lined with cinder blocks. The scene was illuminated by many crisscrossing fairy and Christmas lights, strung jauntily from trees and posts. Under their soft glow sat several dilapidated trailers, bearing cutesy signs (Suzie’s Stoop for a vintage Airstream, Bear’s Den for a greasy Toyota Dolphin RV). They each had wooden decks and flower beds filled with various bizarre structures: small statues built out of bricks and old pots, a string of cheese graters hanging between two trees, and a piece of corrugated metal roofing, rusted pink, and cut jaggedly into the shape of a flamingo. Lining the path were old mirrors, buckets, and watering cans, and more outsider art constructed of shopping cart wheels, weather vanes, propane tanks, lamp shades, and ceiling fans. Everything looked on the verge of collapse, and yet strangely latent, as though time could do it no further injury.

To our right, a dark figure was sitting on a log stoking the flames of a small fire. He stood up and walked towards us. He was tall and slender, with a slow, shuffling gait, and was wearing dusty cowboy boots, a navy blue jumpsuit, and a cowboy hat. He greeted us as Jim O — our camp host — and stared placidly at us with his pale blue eyes narrowed as we introduced ourselves. Then he waved us over to a nearby wagon and told us to throw in our bags.

We were exhausted after the stress of Houston, and barely looked at our surroundings. When he dropped us off at our campsite (a large sloping field — anywhere here is good, he said), we set up our tent efficiently and passed out. We were bound for Big Bend, and Camp EZ was just a curiosity along the way.

Camp E-Z’s check-in was a breeze. To be honest, we figure you could sneak in there without anyone really noticing. Maybe you could sleep in the back seat of one of the various abandoned cars. Jim O would probably be down to barter for goat feed or like esoteric Subaru parts. Stalling out on one of the most congested sections of interstate in America provides optional thrill for the so inclined. 8/10.

Nearby Attractions (James)

We hit the road again the next morning aiming to make it to Big Bend via San Antonio. As we crested a hill, we saw a wall of slowed cars. To our right, a busy exit lane was packed with fast-moving transport trucks. To our left, Dodge Chargers and lifted Ford F-150s whizzed by. Then the engine died. Charley Pride’s “Is Anybody Goin’ to San Antone” cut out, and an eerie silence filled the cabin. Terrified, we put the hazards on and coasted across three lanes of traffic, desperate for the breakdown lane. We found a hole between two Walmart trucks, and skidded onto the shoulder, hearts racing. We made it. Just.

We called AAA once more. Practically on speed dial at this point. When the tow truck finally came, two burly guys jumped from the lifted doors, and Peter got to work explaining the situation.

They towed us to the closest mechanic in New Braunfels, Texas: Christian Brothers Auto Mechanics. Along the way, we started talking across the bench of the truck. Meant to fit two, the bench now held four smelly men. One guy, maybe in his mid thirties, was training the younger of the two who wasn’t much older than Peter and me. They liked to go mudding, ride ATVs in Big Bend (a moment of bonding), and play music. The younger fell into this job out of necessity. “Three kids to support, not that much time for music anymore, especially when I’ve got this guy on my back,” he laughed and pointed to his supervisor. 

They dropped us off at Christian Brothers, an auto mechanic in the freeway-lined city called New Braunfels. Bible quotes lined the wall, written in italic script and in glitter frames. We waited for hours. After charging us $200 for a “check up”, they told us there was nothing they could do and that they’d have to keep the car at least until the next day. Nuh-uh…

“Can I speak with your manager?” was all I had to say… 

A young guy in overalls covered in grease backed the car out of their garage and left it running in the lot. There’s your car, he said. 

We strongly discourage any visit to Christian Brothers. 

We limped back to Camp EZ… again. We drove exclusively on broken country roads, fields all around us. What might have been bucolic sightseeing under other circumstances was instead a tense pilgrimage back to Jim O’s, full of silent pleas to the god of automobiles. Peter had heard that turning on the hot air would draw heat away from the engine making it less likely the car would stall. Picture Peter and I, bearded and itchy, sweating in the front seats, windows down and heat on full blast as we plough through 32°C of Texas sun. 

And then we were back. We pulled down Wasson Road as the night grew darker overhead. Despite sleeping in a random man’s backyard, finally all was well. 

Jim’s backyard. Round two. Here we go.

Do not venture south of Camp EZ if you are in a car worth under 2000 Canadian dollars. Christian Brothers is a guaranteed deal with the devil. Avoid at all costs. We didn’t go into New Braunfels but we assume it is a great place to see your dreams fall to ruin. We hear there is a waterpark that may or may not be very fun. 2/10

Kitchen and Dining (Peter)

We recounted our tale to Jim, his serene expression unchanging. He shrugged and told us we could stay as long as we liked. As we trudged back through the property to the sloping campground, some of the long-term residents eyed us from their porches and windows. We pitched our tent, then sat at a busted picnic bench in the middle of the overgrown field to take stock.

We had no car. James had a flight from El Paso in three days that he would surely miss. I was shell-shocked, convinced I would have to sell the Subaru and fly back to Canada. We had no way out of Austin. Shit.

We made our way to the outdoor kitchen, where microwaves and toaster ovens sat around haphazardly, their wires exposed to the elements. Dirty dishes were stacked high in the sink, pantry staples lay open on the counter, and the fridges hummed. Above an ancient gas range, kitschy wall-art touted the value of cleanliness. As with many things at Camp EZ, the kitchen seemed to defy logic, impervious to the ridiculousness of heavy-duty electronics and food being exposed to the rain and rodents.

A tall guy with a mop of brown hair and a soul patch wandered past us, headed for the pantry. We introduced ourselves; his name was Ron, and he slept in a burgundy Dodge Caravan parked across the street. He had been living at Camp EZ for six months, and spent his days building a roof over a rundown trailer Jim had lying around, which he planned to move in to. A more permanent “off-grid solution,” he called it.  As he slowly made himself Kraft Dinner, another resident walked shiftily out of the garden. He opened the fridge and grabbed a sweaty Ziploc bag, then put a pan on the stove at full blast. He introduced himself as Greg. Up close, we saw the bag was full of greasy scraps of meat and bone. “I’m a carnivore,” he explained, then threw the gizzards into the pan and smoked up the surrounding area. We left them to it.

We wandered over to a fenced enclosure home to several goats. Jim O came by with a wheelbarrow of hay. “Do you milk the goats?” we asked. “Naw, these are just my little buddies,” he said. After he was done with the hay he showed us the advertised sauna, which, it turned out, was a prefab garden shed with a woodstove in it. But it was sunny and 25 degrees, so we didn’t think too much of it.

We regrouped at the tent, picking through our belongings aimlessly. James moved his flight, then called his Dad; Mark had lived in New Orleans and knew the South, so we looked to him for wisdom. He suggested I drive the car to a deserted road, take off the plates, and leave the keys on the dash. “Just ditch the thing,” he said in his thick Massachusetts accent. I furiously Googled the solution, enamoured by the idea of a clean break; but I read that if the car was used in the commission of a crime I could be charged. Not jazzed by the prospect of a run-in with the Texas judicial system, I put the idea on the backburner; only if we got desperate.

Dine on the finest slop with veritable weirdos who live in shacks! Observe their relationship to Jim O, mercurial Airbnb business cowboy who seems ambivalent to their very existence! Retreat from the smell of sizzling pig snout to the confines of your tent, where you can question the terrible decisions that led you to this point! We balance our uneasiness towards our fellow tenants’ diets with our immense respect for the goats. 6/10

Where You’ll Sleep (James)

The next morning, I woke up freezing.  Even in my down sleeping bag, I was shivering. Peter slowly pulled his phone from the depths of his cocoon and checked the weather. Texas was undergoing another record-breaking cold snap with temperatures of -2°C, not unlike the previous year’s snap that had decimated the state’s electrical grid.

Peter and I laid side by side like two dormant insects, waiting till spring once again. We laid there for hours after waking up, worn out from the trials and tribulations of the Subaru but mostly because we were freezing. Eventually, we mustered the strength to put on all of our layers and venture into the world. I walked to the spigot that we are supposed to use for fresh water and showering. I turned the knob: nothing. I heard the ghostly sound of heeled cowboy boots on the gravel path. Jim was dressed in all black, contrasted with his gray-white hair.  “Pipes all froze” is all he said.

Since it was real cold and Peter and I were the only campers on the property, Jim nodded to the sauna and said “could sleep there if you want…”

He gave us a pile of old scrap wood that looked like it was siding peeled from a house. Peter rolled up a walmart bag into a little plastic log and stuffed it into the wood stove. “Check out this trick I learned from this old lady in Georgia. Works like a dream as a fire starter.” The fire from the lighter jumped onto the plastic bag and instantly we had a roaring fire. The little shed heated up quickly.

Peter and I laughed as we took in the gravity and sheer absurdity of sleeping in the sauna. We were warm for the first time that day. To celebrate, I took my first “shower” in days by filling a bucket of ice cold water from the one tap on site that still worked and sudsing myself up in the outdoor shower. Despite the carbon monoxide risk, Peter and I slept with the fire in the small wood stove roaring. Suddenly, Jim’s backyard didn’t seem all that bad.

Maybe if you’re lucky, you too can sleep in the sauna. Although maybe not as relaxing as your traditional schwitz, it certainly has its own… Je ne sais quoi… The cold plunge in the morning certainly is great for you, however, ideally not out of a Home Depot bucket. 7/10

Social Life (James)

The next day, after an ice bucket shower, we headed for the kitchen, starving. Ron and Azalea, two other residents of Camp EZ, were sitting around a small fire. Azalea lived with her tiny chihuahua in a school bus parked in the back of the property. The S and H lettering had been knocked out, thus rechristening the bus as the “Cool Bus”. She was small, with dark hair and olive skin. Peter and I chatted with them as we started chopping veggies and assembling a paltry lunch of sweaty vegetables and canned tomatoes. Mostly listening, but not really paying attention. We asked the usual questions, “Where you from?” “What brought you here?” “How long you been around here?” 

The fire crackled and Peter and I brought our bowls of slop to the two empty chairs next to theirs, and we sat down. Ron was from a suburb outside Seattle. Azalea was placeless. We talked about our lives in Canada. Me in Toronto, and Peter in Montreal. It was a pretty amicable conversation. The four of us were the only young people at the camp. 

Ron liked it at Camp EZ. He hoped the roof of his trailer would be done soon, so he could properly move in. At one point, he was like us, he seemed to concede. His parents were middle class liberals and vaccinated, and in fact, Ron was still on his parent’s health plan which would expire when he turned 26. He was 25. Once that expired, he’d “figure it out.” He’d be “out of the system.” Azalea was passing through. She was a stripper touring from town to town for work. Although she had been in Austin for three months, it seemed as if she was from all over and planned on keeping it that way. When she was tired of a place, she and her chihuahua would pack up and keep going. Camp EZ was the place she had stayed at the longest.

After some time, the conversation veered towards the topic of that time: Covid. They spoke of being unvaccinated. We talked about being vaccinated. And thus, the polite small talk unravelled into a tentatively honest discussion. I can’t remember the specifics of what we all said. Maybe that doesn’t matter. 

What I do remember were the quick, knowing glances between Azalea and Ron and then between Peter and myself. Neither party really said what we actually felt, but rather tried our best to determine the lines between us. To make our stances clear, or rather, to puzzle out what we actually believed. Something strong would be said from one camp, and then the fire would crackle loudly, absorbing the silences that would bisect discussion points. I would like to say that Peter and I were strongly educated and had citable facts and elegant rebuttals to arguments that to us seemed untrue. We didn’t. The whole encounter was unsure, as if every one of us were feeling out our words as they left our mouths. 

Stimulating discussion in a friendly atmosphere that makes you realize how nobody (especially you) knows anything. And to top it all off, you get slop for lunch? A humanizing discussion among people our age. 7/10. 

Neighbourhood Highlights (Peter)

At around 2pm, a shabby, bleary-eyed man in his mid-forties clambered out of a yurt. We waved and he shambled over to us. He was white, wearing a ratty, red-and-gray patterned drug rug, blue jeans, and a monster energy flat-cap. He had a ruddy complexion, with a mess of gray stubble dotting his cheeks. “Hey boys,” he growled, “I’m Bill.”

Bill was from Georgia. He had been living in Jim’s backyard for three months, and was working as a vet tech in the city. “I had to get on the road… always wanted to go out West.” We liked Bill; he was on the same quest as us, it seemed, and was similarly skeptical of the other residents of Camp EZ. “They’re kooks! All Jim does all day is drive around on his little tractor and nail random shit together. And that Ron — he’s been building that damn roof all year. And get vaccinated, what’s the big deal!” When we asked what he was doing in a yurt in Jim’s backyard, he shrugged; “it’s cheap. And I don’t wanna stay nowhere too long.”

Bill invited us to join him at the Sagebrush, a local roadhouse in a nearby industrial park, that evening. The squat, boxy building was a hub of activity in South Congress. Outside, a taco truck sold the best Al Pastor I have ever tasted. At the door, big, shifty looking cowboys with ZZ Top beards checked our Quebec licenses with skepticism. Inside was a huge black room with two stages and a large dance floor.

We saw Bill slumped at a dark table. To our great surprise, Jim O. was also there, straight-backed and leaning at the bar in his dusty cowboy boots and blue jumpsuit, now belted with a lone-star buckle. The baby-faced bartender chattered as he poured us two beers in plastic Solo cups. “Take a guess, which of the two of us is older?” he asked, pointing excitedly at Jim. Comparing Jim’s creased eyes and white hair with this guy’s rosy cheeks and smooth skin, we had to play along - “Jim,” we said. “Hah! That guy’s not even fifty — I’m almost sixty!” the bartender exclaimed, the only one laughing at his triumph. “You want a shot?” Before we had time to answer, he’d poured one out for each of us, three fingers of whiskey in stout plastic shot glasses. Jim O. downed the drink without waiting, his distant, placid look unchanging. We cheersed the kooky old cowboy and downed ours as well, coughing, unused to the Old-West tonic.

“Hey boys,” Bill slurred as we approached, “ssitddown!” He was wasted. We took our stools, and he grinned dazedly at us, his watery eyes glittering in the gloom. He began to tell us about his years following the popular Georgia jam band Widespread Panic. “Their music is transcendent. Went to damn near every show for ten years. Did a lot of acid. And the girls, man…” Bill looked around pensively. “Ya know, those days are over now… the other night I came here and took some molly though. Fuckin awesome.” He threw up the devil horns and smiled gamely. “Alone?” we asked. “Yeah I was just hanging out. Man I hate that Jim guy. Guy wants to charge me more for rent. Some hippie. Like, I live in a yurt man!” He blew into his hand and popped up his middle finger, then laughed maniacally. “Like, ffffffucckk you!” His bright eyes looked searchingly, desperately into ours. “Ffffffuck off!” He fell into a loop, throwing up the middle finger and dropping extended F bombs. James and I looked at eachother askance and took deep draughts of our beers.

A while later we headed to the pool tables. Some young guys in thrift-store cowboy boots, cheap hats and band tees were playing. “We’re up next,” the friendliest among them said, nodding to the stage. His name was Dustin, he was a drummer, and his whole band had moved from Chicago two months ago. “There’s nowhere else you can gig seven days a week,” he shrugged, “so we figured we’d try out the country thing.” He gave us his card — “you never know,” he said after we assured him we had no gigs to provide.

In the end, we stayed to watch their set (they plodded dutifully through the Grand Ol Opry songbook, although I couldn’t help noticing Dustin sneaking in some metal fills on Stay All Night). Jim O. disappeared, Bill regaled us with tales of his buddy Mike, and the baby-faced bartender had many more shots, then drove off in his F-150. At the end of the night, walking back down the dusty shoulder of Wasson Road clutching tacos, our hands prickled with cold, and we longed for our sauna home.

No lie, the Sagebrush is probably the best thing about Camp EZ. It's so damn close and the tacos are so damn good. The Austin music scene is full of genuinely talented people playing cowboy for the benefit of tech bros who are also playing cowboy — but hey, that’s America. We’re knocking points since we were the only drunks there who weren’t driving home. 7/10

On-site Recreation (James)

The next day, we kicked around Austin’s downtown, ending up at the Chili Parlor Bar, a legendary haunt of Texas businessmen, politicians, and alcoholics, and made famous to us by a Guy Clark song. We rehashed the trip up till that point again, laughing at what only a couple days before had been depressing. Buck Owens played loudly on the jukebox. 

“My transistor radio comes from far away 

And when it's night over here, over there it's-a breaking day 

I remember all the good times I had walking in the sand 

With a beautiful girl that I met made in Japan.” 

We laughed about the car stalling out. We laughed about Jim. And Bill. And Ron. About all the weirdos we’d spoken to along the way. They’re probably laughing about us, we joked. Those two weirdos from Canada who just kept on driving from place to place. We didn’t laugh about Azalea. A lot of the people we met felt like people who were trying to flee society. Others felt like people who just couldn’t make it in.

A while later, back at camp, we were accosted by an old hippy. He came stumbling out of the woods: “Somebody said we’re having a sauna tonight!” His toes poked out of his ripped wool socks, barely constrained by a pair of ancient sandals. His long gray hair was wiry and, despite not being too old, he had a prematurely decrepit frame. We had heard about Jasper. He lived in a trailer on the property and wailed on his guitar late into the night. Now there he was, proposing a sweat in the little sauna that Peter and I had converted into our home for the last two nights. Fuck.

“Let's gather wood together, I’ll show you what the good stuff to harvest is.” 

We followed Jasper around in the brambles where Jim O. kept his goats. He ripped a huge branch off a tree and turned to us: “mesquite is great stuff… you guys know what mesquite is? Its smoke has excellent properties when inhaled. Great for asthma...” 

Peter and I returned to our sauna and wearily removed our belongings from the tiny dark space. Dejection hung heavy over us like a cloud about to rain. We mutually agreed that we would attend the sauna. At least to be warm, even if everyone who would be there was unvaccinated and didn't believe Covid was real. At least it would be warm.

Jasper returned. This time, there was only a threadbare towel that at one point was white around his waist. “It’s sauna time!!” Fuck. 

Jim O. was a no show, but Ron and Azalea showed up. Even so, five people were a tight fit in the miniscule shed. We all entered. Azalea took off her clothes and sat on the bench in her underwear. Ron shed a layer or two, stopping at his boxers. As he did so, he made sure to make eye contact with Peter and I — just to make sure that we knew that he thought he was the most fit looking man in this sweaty rotted wooden shed. Peter and I both remained clothed in increasingly hot protest of our circumstances. Jasper began a long soliloquy on the state of America. As if channeling something from another dimension, Jasper closed his eyes and began talking. “Mercury is in retrograde”, he said, “and will be for a long time to come. There will be a lot of bad things coming for America. Very dark times. But it will be a reckoning and there will be big changes afoot. And afterwards, we will all learn the truth.” Ron and Azalea nodded strongly, as if waiting to hear this all along. I could see a sweat mark from Jasper’s balls right where I normally lay my head on the bench of the sauna, where I would sleep later that night. Fuck. 

After an awkward hour of Jasper’s astral theories, we crawled out into the freezing night air. Peter and I were still fully clothed, and drenched in sweat, which froze immediately to our skin. Shaking, we hobble to the tent for extra layers. Upon our return, the residents of Camp EZ had started a crackling fire by the goat pit, and beckoned us over. We stumbled over blankly, moths to the flame.

Piling into a sweaty prefab wooden shed that was once your only refuge from the cold and being regaled with unhinged astrological predictions by naked strangers is fun and all. But Jasper’s ball sweat is unforgivable. 3/10

Check Out (Peter & James)

When we wake on the final morning, the cold snap has ended. In its place is a dull, dry heat. The sauna smells like an armpit. We bumble to the shower and dump buckets of ice water on our heads.

Across Camp EZ, little stirs. The Cool Bus is silent. The goats munch hay wordlessly. Even the stream has nothing to say, its murky waters shifting noiselessly in its bed. And we are silent too, lost in thought.

Finally, we pile our gear into a pull-cart and lug it to the gate. Jim O is sitting outside his trailer, holding a brand-new iPhone at arm’s length, squinting and tapping. “I’m just updating the listings. We got a festival coming in, so we’ll be full up soon.” In that moment of stillness, the notion of a Camp EZ bustling with out-of-towners in for South-by-Southwest is beyond our comprehension. Camp EZ is a fixed point out of time, its rusted pink flamingos and crusty denizens existing only for their own benefit. We say our goodbyes to Jim O, and he nods distractedly (a few days later we will receive Jim O’s Airbnb review of us: “Perfect in every way.”)

On our final drive around Austin, we wander aimlessly. To drown out the creaking of the brakes, we play Big Thief’s “Spud Infinity” on loop. “What’s it going to take, to free the celestial bodies?” Adrianne Lenker asks over a twanging jaw harp and screeching violins. We don’t know. Maybe Jasper knows, we joke. We are our elbows, wandering like a rolling stone, rubbing up against the edges of experience.

What does it all mean? Peter and I go to the Chili Parlor Bar one last time and then I take a taxi to the airport. As I stand at my gate, waiting to board my flight to Atlanta and then Toronto, I feel manic. I feel the need to shake anyone who walks by me and ask whether this is really America? How could this be the country I thought I was from? 

I was disturbed: America had left so many people out of the fabric of society that people were no longer interested in being part of any of it anymore. What was the point in trying when life couldn’t be what it was promised, like we were all told when we were growing up? That we could be anything in America? What was the land of the free without the option to be untethered, adrift, and rootless? How did I not know this, though? And if I was so profoundly surprised by our experiences, what was I expecting? Perhaps untethered freedom was more frightening once you’re in a sauna sweating next to it. 

After James leaves I drive up onto the highway and, white-knuckled, heat blasting, make my way to the garage. Amid a maze of industrial buildings I find it: little more than a cramped driveway filled with broken-down cars. Ford trucks from the eighties with no wheels sit on wooden beams; a wood-panelled station wagon slumps on its flat tires, hood up, a gaping hole where its engine should be. From amid this graveyard emerges a small South American guy in his mid-forties. He leans in my open window and introduces himself as Rod; then he pulls open a squat garage door I hadn’t noticed, and expertly guides me into a dark, crowded room. My car only fits half-way in. There’s no lift, and the floor is littered with empty fluid cans.

Rod motions for me to get out of the car. As I explain the stalling, Rod’s brow furls and unfurls rapidly. Then he nods — “no problem my friend” — and in a flash disappears underneath my car.

I walk out into the lot, and a rusty truck pulls up. A guy with a beer belly and a trucker hat jumps out and nods friendly-like. “Canada? What you think of that Justin Trudeau guy? Ya know he’s actually Fidel Castro’s son? What you think of that freedom convoy?” I nod along blankly. There’s a lot more of this waiting for me. Rod ushers me over. “Easy fix my friend.” He takes a can of compressed air and blows it at a few wires on the engine. Then he slams closed the hood. I look at him slack-jawed. He has done nothing, and yet I trust him completely. “You will be fine my friend. You remind me of my daughter. Always moving. Call me if you have problems.” I back out of the lot, past the trucker, past Rod’s endless unfinished projects, onto the cracked road. I shift the gears, and drive.