The White Elephant Under the Sink

When your Airbnb guests ask for the strangest things — and you’re left trying to make sense of it all.

“An American consumes, on average, 1.5 rolls of toilet paper per week, which means two Americans would require three rolls per week." I remind myself as I place my chin over the stack of seven rolls I'm carrying toward the back of our house, occasionally used as an Airbnb.

I catch Ambuj's judging look as I try not to stumble against the internal door. "How many rolls are you giving them?"

"They're staying for ten days," I snap back as I make my way to the bathroom, stashing the leaning, soft white tower under the sink. "And I don't want the guests reaching out during their stay."

My rationale as a Superhost is that a good stay is measured by how little the guests need to reach out. The less interaction, the more successful the stay. After all, would you ever contact your Airbnb host or any service if you didn't need anything? That is precisely my point.

I ignore Ambuj's mumbling in the background, knowing eight rolls of toilet paper, including the one already placed near the pot, is a stellar showcase of consideration.

We shall call the guest of this story Jenny. On the fourth day of her stay, I see a push notification lighting up my phone, with the unmistakable reddish Airbnb logo on the side.

"What now?" I'm still annoyed that I had to go out and buy nightlights for Jenny the day before, and this message makes me fidgety.

"Hello! Is there more TP besides what's under the bathroom sink?"

I had to read the message several times to decipher what "TP" meant—surely, it couldn't be toilet paper. Well, I was wrong.

I don't enjoy math but stay with me as we return to elementary school for a moment. If one American uses 1.5 toilet paper rolls per week, two Americans use three rolls per week. How many rolls do two Americans that stay for ten days need?

I won't solve this problem, but the number is way less than eight. Even if Jenny & Co used double the average consumption, the number would still be less or equal to eight.

It feels like an Alice-in-Wonderland moment as those white rolls smile back at me from under the sink. What's going on? Bowel problems? Flashing diarrhea? I consider the possibility that Jenny hasn't seen them.

"I've left several under the bathroom sink," I reply. "Were you able to locate them? Let me know if you need more."

"Yeah, we need some more. No rush."

I see "typing" under Ambuj's name on WhatsApp, and I already know the topic of the message since co-hosts get the same notifications. We start guessing what could be happening. The toilet paper we provided is decent, not the cheap one-sheet-only. Jenny has invited friends over occasionally, but there haven't been that many visitors that we know of…

I can't find a way to ask Jenny if everything is okay, so I leave four more rolls at the front door, hoping it will be enough for their stay. Spoiler alert: I haven't received any other requests, so twelve seems to be the magic number.

The event sent me spiralling into deep thoughts about toilet paper's role (pun intended) in our lives.

Growing up in Italy, I always complemented toilet paper use with the bidet, a small, sink-like appliance positioned right next to the toilet, ensuring easy access with a simple slide of the butt.

In India, I've been to countless toilets without toilet paper. Yup! Every pot has a handheld bidet sprayer attached so the user can spray water on the dirty part while sitting or squatting if on a Turkish toilet. Are you wet after that? Sure, but nothing a good cotton underwear can't absorb quickly.

I've never been to Japan, but those toilets are famous for being a one-stop shop for all "business."

Thanks to the highly accurate AI feature of Google search, I now know that the U.S. consumes 20% of the world's toilet paper despite having only 4% of its population. And, among the states that spend the most on toilet paper, there it is—Jenny's state: Maryland.

The reality is that toilet paper is one of those under-the-radar must-have item, and one that is causing 15% of deforestation. Well, now you know too.

As a kid, I thought it regenerated on its own, as it was always stashed. Reality hit when I was a student, living in a shared apartment, and my roommate and I had to budget for it: surprise, it didn’t come with the house. As poor students, we sometimes "borrowed" rolls from public places like schools, Starbucks, etc. The average family spends $300 annually on toilet paper so, forgive us for borrowing a couple of rolls—we were scrappy students.

And that's when it hits me: in a world where everyone is trying to save and be more frugal, toilet paper must be a precious gift for loved ones. So, dear Jenny, I hope you put colorful ribbons around the immaculate white rolls before gifting them to your friends.