Oscar and nine friends rang in 2021 in a rural Airbnb north of Madrid with house music, drugs, and booze, flouting a number of local ordinances aimed at stopping the spread of COVID-19. A week later, nearly all of them, Oscar included, came down with the virus. “We infected our roommates, our coworkers—it got so bad that we were keeping a Google Doc of who was spreading it and who was getting it,” he told me over the phone. “We were panicked.”
Madrid has been pummeled by the pandemic. At the time of writing, the greater region had registered a total of nearly 13,000 COVID-related deaths, a figure that reflects a series of spikes that haven’t abated since summer. According to a Feb. 5 government briefing, half of new cases in Madrid are of the highly contagious variant currently sweeping the United Kingdom. It’s obvious: This is no time for parties.
But according to dozens of local news articles, municipal police reports, and plain old word of mouth (ahem: my Instagram feed), the parties in vacation rentals continue, despite warnings from every echelon of the government. It all begs the question: Why on Earth are Madrileños like Oscar, a well-educated thirtysomething, partying in Airbnbs, nearly one year into the pandemic? And, more importantly, how are they not getting caught?
The short answer to the latter is, some are. Over the weekend of Jan. 30 alone, Madrid’s municipal police busted 253 illegal parties, two of which (with attendees numbering 21 and 50, respectively) were held in “tourist rentals,” according to a local official. In both instances, revelers “did not uphold the anti-COVID security measures” and were found maskless and packed together while they drank, smoked, and danced.
One would think that the death toll and alarming rise in cases in Madrid would give partiers pause, but many locals, especially young ones, are willing to risk their health and that of others for a raucous night out. “It was nice to just socialize again and dance to music,” said Mikaela, a U.S. transplant in her twenties who rented an Airbnb in the city center with her partner to celebrate their civil union. The 20-some guests evidently trashed the place enough for the apartment’s owner to send a grouchy email the following day, but according to Mikaela, the couple was not hit with a fine. “I didn’t feel guilty about it whatsoever,” she said.
It was disturbingly easy to find other acquaintances who had partied in Airbnbs in the last year. One, who wished to remain anonymous, found out about a rager at a glitzy Airbnb loft on Gran Vía, Madrid’s main thoroughfare, through Instagram. He promptly rolled up with his crew. There were 20 attendees, a mix of Spaniards and Americans, and many spent the night. Another reveler, who also asked that his name not be used, has attended multiple parties in vacation rentals, the most recent of which was in mid-January at a chalet on the outskirts of town. He and approximately two-dozen friends lugged DJ equipment out to the mansion, which was outfitted with a Turkish hammam.
Everyone I spoke with who had rented Airbnbs for parties in the last year noted both how practical (in terms of cleanup) and affordable they were, a reflection of a tourism market running on fumes. The multi-floor pad off Gran Vía came in at $360 for the weekend, and the apartment that the couple rented, which had three bedrooms and a sprawling terrace, set them back only $120 a night, a pittance compared to pre-pandemic rates.
In fact, sometimes the rental property owners, desperate for bookings, permit large gatherings knowingly. A bombshell report by the Spanish news channel Cuatro that aired in November features hidden-camera footage of a vacation rental-turned-nightclub packed to the gills with some 80 people. The walls are lined with cork soundproofing panels and there’s a full wrap-around bar in the living room. Entry was €30 per person—a lucrative business model.
Such irreverence on part of apartment owners happens on a smaller scale as well. The owner of Oscar’s New Year’s Eve rental was aware that the group exceeded the legal six-person cap but greenlighted the agreement anyway. “She washed her hands of responsibility and told us not to be stupid,” Oscar said.
If Airbnb were able to identify that woman, her account would no doubt be suspended. In December, the platform removed more than 800 listings in Spain that had racked up complaints or broken Airbnb’s global no-party rule. The company has also set up a hotline that neighbors of Airbnb rentals can call to report noise or suspicious activity. Yet ideally guests looking to party would be screened and turned around while booking, and that’s precisely what Airbnb is trying to do: They’ve been blocking over 5,000 sketchy-looking reservation attempts each month since August, according to a company statement (red flags include under-25s looking to rent properties close to home).
None of the partygoers I spoke with were met with any such roadblocks when booking on Airbnb, but in retrospect, Oscar wishes he had. “I’m not proud of what I did. It’s embarrassing,” he said, adding that COVID made him feel “really shitty” for several days.
“You’re young, not immortal” is the tagline of a current local government campaign designed to discourage partying among youth and young adults. It’s uncertain, though, whether that message will ever truly sink in.
Note: The names of some individuals quoted in this article have been changed to preserve their anonymity.
