Attempted AirBnB Break-In

As a woman traveling alone with my daughter, I have a variety of simple safety systems in place to warn us of intruders, one is sleigh bells I can hang from any door.

My daughter and I were in bed when we heard the sleigh bells ring. We jumped up and headed to the living area. The door handle was shaking violently, not just normal, mistaken-apartment-sort-of-way, but more in a I-can-hear-that-I’m-shaking-bells-and-I’m-going-to-keep-trying-to-get-in-sort-of-way. I said, “Can I help you?” Then the loud alarm above the door went off (which you can hear in the video) and it continued to go off and on all night.

I looked through the peep hole. We are in a not totally safe, higher crime rate, what we could afford, gentrified area— but in a new American built apartment complex that is set up like a Marriott Hotel. The hallway lights up when someone is in the area and remains dark if not. The hallway was lit but I couldn’t see anyone. Then the door handle started shaking again. I asked, “Who is it?” No answer.

At this point, not only am I exhausted, but now I’m very annoyed, a little frightened and somewhat triggered. You may remember the Manhunt substack.com/@sagewords… I wrote about that took place in November. It’s left me on a slight edge. Shortly thereafter we dealt with presumed porch pirates shinning a light into our car windows on an unsettling December night when my husband was staying with his mother during her last weeks alive and we were feeling particularly vulnerable. All this on top of the time the Golden state killer tried to break into our childhood home in the 1970s. Our next door neighbor saved our lives and got the neighborhood park named after him. Years later, Kelly, a gal I went to high school with, told me about how her mom was dating the Golden State Killer when we were teenagers. Back then, we called him “The East Area Rapist.”

I’ve experienced more than my share of trauma in my life. Not enough trauma to render me fearful, living small and fighting for my limitations, but enough to keep me on my toes.

I spoke through the door at our invisible intruder in an authoritative tone, “It’s late. We are not interested. You are not welcome at this time. Go away!” The alarm started to blare even louder. I told my daughter that I think it was time to call the police.

Punk Rock Progressive Police

They came so quickly, which was a welcome surprise. But I almost didn’t believe they were real because of how they looked: two 20 something males, one with eye liner, the other with Mike Score’s Flock of Seagull’s gelled hair, and uniforms that resembled American police stripper costumes.

There was a time in 1990s, when every female’s birthday celebration or bachelorette party had a male stripper come to the door dressed as a police offer, holding a boom box, stating, “I’m here to investigate a disturbance.” They’d come in, press play, declare loudly and enthusiastically, “I’m the disturbance.” The faux police would do a Magic Mike inspired striptease to a woman in a kitchen chair feigning embarrassment as she willingly grabbed the naked man buns whose forward parts were flinging in her face. As the designated photographer for all my friend’s and family’s parties and events, I have photographic evidence of which I speak. Lol.

The police came in, looked around, and left telling us they would ask neighbors if they had seen anything or if any neighbors accidentally tried to get in- confusing our apartment for their own. The alarm continued to go on and off all night. Neither of us could sleep.

The next day, when we attempted to leave our room, the door wouldn’t lock. We called maintenance, and two lovely gents: Craig and Darren came and confirmed that the door jam had been loosened and tampered with. When I told them about the alarm going off and on all night, they asked me which one. Apparently there are three: one for the door, one that goes straight to the fire brigade station, and one for the smoke alarm.

The alarm that was going off was the one to the fire brigade. Naturally, since there was no actual fire but there was an attempted break in- I thought it was the spirits of my deceased family members letting me know to be on high alert. My life is filled with super natural experiences with loved ones who have passed away, and who I believe continue to stay near and offer guidance and protection.

Craig and Darren repaired the door, but we still barricade the door when we sleep and check the closet when we come home. Hyper vigilance, the internal security system on alert, is no fun!

Twice in One Month

I messaged my buddy in the states when all the ruckus began, “Someone is trying to break into the airbnb. Police are on their way.”

“Again?!” He said.

I had forgotten that something similar to this happened at the last Airbnb- just a few days ago. What?! Yes, my daughter was really sick and I hadn’t slept much in weeks, and the stress of moving abroad in and of itself is enough to make anyone “distracted” but how could I forget something so significant? PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, that’s how.

For those who have suffered numerous traumas in life, suffering just one more can feel “normal.” To survive the stress, we simply survive and press on to other matters, forgetting what we just went through. It’s not quite the same thing as denial- more-so, “survival forgetfulness.”

Denial, like that of any family member who protects a loved one who is sexually abusing children, is a powerful survival tool for living through the unimaginable. It’s also the manna for cowards and why generational abuse is possible.

When survivors begin to heal and recall the past, and mention a trauma we had forgotten, we can be accused of “false memory disorder.” This is why I share my present, in real time, with my closest peeps- they are my living memory along with screen shots, photographs and journal entires: my reality receipts.

The First Attempted Break-In at the Other AirBnB

My daughter was very sick at the time. Again, the fire alarm went off, this time for the entire building. It was just a few minutes and there was no smell of smoke, so I assumed it was a regular test. Then about 30 minutes later, my daughter and I heard two male voices at the door, a key enter, and the handle start to jingle. I went over to the door and simply said, “Occupied!”

We heard them laugh and scurry away. My intuitive hit was that maybe it was a couple who had stayed there in the past, made a copy of the key, and were looking for an empty spot for some “Afternoon Delight” recreational activity and were not expecting the unit to be occupied.

Now where do we go?

Our sense of insecurity lingers as our permanent housing has yet to be secured. The visa options and regulation laws changed today on February 25, 2026. Once again, we are filling out bureaucratic forms. In the meantime, we are scheduled to be without shelter on March 1.

I have one day to figure out where we will go to next:

A. Schlepping all our belongings to yet another Airbnb until we have the needed share code for the unfurnished cottage by the Academy?

B. Renting a flat in the building we are in currently which is furnished but without furnishings (bedding, dishes, towels, etc) which would also require we provide them with a share code and move in on Friday, February 27?

C. Or negotiate to stay here for another 2-4 weeks until the share code becomes available? This is the easy button but also the most expensive option.

We remain in faith as we pray but move our feet to work it all out.

Thank you for caring, for being on this journey with us, and for your paid subscription that helps fund this educational opportunity for our daughter and our search for a homeland that we can afford.