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   Trading places

Want to see the world without paying a fortune in hotel fees? Then consider house swapping–the perfect way for bargain travelers to enjoy all the comforts of home for free.

By Anita Draycott  | February 2001

My husband and I holidayed in Australia last September and it cost less than if we had stayed home in Toronto. While our neighbors in Toronto were packing away their golf clubs and raking leaves, we were enjoying the surf and sun of Aussie springtime.

Am I sounding smug? Sorry, but it gets better. Our accommodation was a private house that would have rivaled any five-star hotel. We enjoyed grand expanses of white marble floors, a gourmet kitchen stocked with exotic spices and condiments, formal living and dining rooms, a family room, three bedrooms and an office, four bathrooms and a laundry room. There was an outdoor pool and a hot tub and a master en suite with a giant Jacuzzi bath. Plus, we were only five minutes from the beach.

Cost per day for all of this? Zero. Because I had cashed in my frequent flyer points, my husband Bill and I flew for free. Our accommodation was also free. So our only expenses were those we would have incurred back home–groceries, gas, restaurants and entertainment. With the Canadian dollar buying about $1.20 Australian, we found ourselves ahead of the game.

Welcome to the wonderful world of home swapping. The notion is really very simple: you and your family live in another family’s house or flat or apartment while they live in yours. While families have probably been striking informal exchange deals for centuries, home swapping as an organized phenomenon began around 1952 when two New York teachers, David and Mary Ostroff, produced a small directory of home-exchange offers, which they sold to subscribers. Their early customers were mainly fellow teachers throughout the U.S. wishing to exchange homes for the summer holidays. Now there are thousands of home-exchange listings to be found both online and in international directories published by dozens of different home-swapping organizations.

I’m a journalist, and I first heard about the concept a few years ago when I was researching stories for a travel magazine. It sounded like a wonderful notion, and after quite a few chats with veteran exchangers I became enthusiastic about giving home swapping a whirl. Since Bill recently took early retirement from his job as a high-school teacher, we had a flexible schedule. And as the owners of a four-bedroom detached house in north Toronto, we figured we had a powerful lure to offer potential swappers.

Our first decision was selecting which home-swapping company to use. Some offer Web site listings; some send catalogues; some charge a membership fee; some are free. We went with HomeLink International, a Vancouver-based organization recommended by friends. We completed the application form (names, address, phone, fax and e-mail numbers, family size, preferred destination and dates, plus a brief description of our house and its amenities) and returned it with a color photograph of our home and a cheque for the $165 membership fee. Then we waited for the next edition of the firm's colour catalogue.

When the catalogue arrived a couple of months later, it felt like Christmas had come–50 countries to choose from, and a 700-plus-page directory listing London flats, Irish cottages, Mexican mansions, Provençal farmhouses.… I brewed myself a cup of tea and let my fingers do the walking.

Most of the listings were of upscale homes with professional, often retired owners. But as Jack Graber, president of HomeLink International, points out, "Our motto is ‘From cabins to castles,’ and the directory includes everything from a renovated castle in Scotland to a humble flat in Belgium." What’s important, he says, is timing and location–if your residence is in the right place and available for the right weeks, you can wind up with many eager swap partners.

When I came across entries that appealed to me, I made initial contact by sending a brief form letter introducing ourselves, our occupations and describing our house and the surrounding attractions. The early results weren’t encouraging. I sent out about 25 letters and e-mails, all of which were rejected for one reason or another. Sometimes the dates weren’t compatible. Sometimes the hang-up was smoking or pet issues. Sometimes it was a matter of family size–our house, for example, is not child-friendly and we have only two queen-size beds.

I had begun my search by fantasizing about a farmhouse in Tuscany or Provence. I hadn’t even considered Australia until the letter from John and Patsy Gallant arrived. I think it was the picture of their pool and private beach that captured my attention.

The Gallants, a youthful retired couple, live on the Gold Coast in Queensland, a one-hour flight north of Sydney. They worked in Canada for many years, and have grown children, grandchildren and numerous friends living here. For the past five years, these veteran exchangers have come to Canada from June to September, often negotiating one home swap in Banff and another in Toronto.

With both parties mutually interested, it was time to get down to the nitty-gritty. Via telephone and Internet, we exchanged more details about our homes and confirmed flight arrival and departure dates. How would we deal with household utility bills, long-distance calls, use of computers, collecting keys? Would we swap cars?

It’s important to sort out these details well in advance. "Nail stuff down," Helen Hatton advises. She and her husband Ron Morris live in Toronto, and are veterans of 15 home exchanges with couples in New Zealand, Spain, England and the U.S. While she’s enthusiastic about their experiences, she says their few unpleasant surprises have resulted from a failure to communicate clearly about dates, expenses and location. " ‘Close to all public transportation,’ for example, meant the house in Slough was just off the main runway to Heathrow Airport," she recalls.

" ‘Close to rail spur in Devon’ " meant a wake-up call from the train roaring through the backyard at 6:40 every morning.

Some of the other things that can go wrong with home swaps are cancellations due to illness and death, disputes with swappers who put excessive mileage on cars and disagreements over housekeeping standards. "The average North American is shocked to find fleas in a Cotswold cottage," says HomeLink’s Graber. "But to the British this might not be such a big deal." (Graber’s Web site, listed in Home-exchange companies, page 56, provides a useful "Ten Commandments" for a successful exchange, plus sample agreements for home and car exchanges.)

By the time we had finalized our arrangements with the Gallants, I was pretty sure we had prevented any foreseeable problems. John is an engineer, so I was confident that he could deal with any house or pool problems at our end. Patsy adored cooking and gardening, so I knew my beloved roses and herbs would be well tended.

We left Toronto on Sept. 1 and touched down in Queensland Sept. 3. Somewhat jet-lagged, we were eager to get to our new digs. The shuttle coach from the airport passed through Surfer’s Paradise just two kilometres north of "our" house and our hearts sank. Imagine the tackiest parts of Myrtle and Miami beaches and you’ve got Surfer’s. Bill and I took one look at the main drag with its noisy bars, T-shirt joints and steady stream of beer-guzzling backpackers and wondered what we had gotten ourselves into.

Fortunately, our house was in Broadbeach Waters, an upscale residential area built along an intercoastal waterway. Most of the homes were modern California-style with private pools and professional landscaping. Nearby was a grand stretch of beach and a variety of good restaurants, cafés and shops. What a relief!

After a quick exploration of our abode (even more commodious than the pictures and description I had folded in my purse), we decided to shop for provisions. Easier said than done. Bill and I are operationally challenged. We have trouble programming a clock radio, let alone assembling something from IKEA. So before we could explore the wonders of Australia, we faced a major problem–getting the remote-controlled garage door to open. Without this we wouldn’t have use of the Gallants’ car.

Help soon arrived in the form of Allan, the Gallants’ neighbor. He had been expecting us, and after a few moments of fiddling with a switch, he opened the door. We took off on the left side of the road to the nearest shopping mall, Bill driving, me navigating, thanks to a detailed book of maps of the area John had left in the glove compartment. I have to admit that driving a strange car in a foreign land on the left side of the road for the first time can test even the best relationships; ours was no exception.

We returned with wine and food. Bill found the outdoor light switch and barbecue tools, while I took inventory of all the goodies in the kitchen. Balsamic vinegar, extra-virgin olive oil, fresh garlic, Dijon mustard–this was definitely a cook’s kitchen. Eventually we sat down to grilled steaks, Caesar salad, a fine, cheap bottle of merlot and some gigantic Queensland strawberries. We bubbled in the hot tub and searched the skies for the Southern Cross. Tomorrow, we decided, we would go exploring, and master the creepy-crawler pool cleaner and intercom system.

Our guardian angel Allan and his wife Maxine made a point of dropping by the next morning to officially welcome us. They invited us over to watch the Olympics opening-night ceremony on TV and offered us some mullet heads to bait the crab trap on the dock. We made plans to play some tennis doubles with their daughters. Maxine lent me a book on Aussie cuisine and told us where to buy exotic fruits and vegetables "cheap as chips."

People like Allan and Maxine are part of what makes a home exchange special. Back home, when we were planning our trip, friends often asked: "Do you really feel comfortable having complete strangers move into your house?" But designating a good friend as a contact person prevents any problems: you get a watchdog for your home while your guest exchangers have a welcoming committee and troubleshooter. (We asked our good friends Monda and Mike to greet the Gallants. Monda delivered a lemon cheesecake on their arrival and invited them to dinner a couple of weeks later. They got on so famously they’re now considering a mutual house swap.)

Queensland’s slogan is "beautiful one day; perfect the next." I couldn’t argue. I don’t think we ever saw a cloud in the sky. This part of the world boasts an average of eight hours of sunshine 300 days a year. In Toronto, I hate getting up early. Down Under, I was happy to be wakened by the birds and sun around 6 a.m.

Bill and I soon fell into a routine. Most mornings we would drive or cycle over to the beach for a jog or a dip, then head over to a sidewalk café for breakfast. My favorite place was Giulio’s, where I would linger over latte and poached eggs served with an unusual sweet green chili sauce, and read a chapter of The Fatal Shore, a history of Australia and its inauspicious prison-colony beginnings. Bill preferred traditional bacon, eggs and toast from a Greek kebob place kitty-corner from Giulio’s, where he’d peruse The Australian newspaper. These brief separations were good; being away for a month, we didn’t need to be joined at the hip morning, noon and night.

Soon enough, we were on a first-name basis with the Thai takeout noodle-shop lady, the butcher (rack of lamb for only $6!) and the wine-shop owners. Our Broadbeach Waters address started to feel like home. Unlike a minimally equipped condo or hotel room, everything we could want was at our fingertips. Going for a picnic? Take the beach towels, bikes and beer cooler. Finish your book? Pick one from their library. Want to try boogie boarding? There’s one in the garage. Run out of sunscreen? It’s in the bathroom.

It must have been an Aussie who coined the phrase "life’s a beach." Everything seemed so easy. Always a parking space. No traffic jams. Plenty of clean changing houses and toilets on the beach. The national expression "no worries mate" says a lot about these laid-back, fun-loving antipodes.

Thanks to John’s excellent directions (we never left home without them), we found the nearest library, tennis courts and golf courses. We took his advice about the half-price lunches at some neighborhood seafood restaurants, and became instant fans of Moreton Bay bugs (a cross between prawns and lobster, only sweeter) and mud crabs. We also found that many restaurants in Australia have a "BYOW" (bring your own wine) policy, and you pay only a minimal corkage fee. For a change of pace, John had told us about the "visitors welcome" policy at all the local Surf Life Saving Clubs along the beaches, so we enjoyed many a sunset drink and bargain dinner with local beach bums at these unpretentious gathering spots.

The Gold Coast’s reputation as the golf capital of Australia was a big reason the Gallants’ home had appealed to us. Bill and I are golf fanatics, and here we were surrounded by championship courses with green fees about half of those in Toronto.

I’ll never forget our first game. We headed inland to the hinterland to Kooralbyn Hotel Resort for a round on the Copperhead Championship course, where Greg Norman was once the pro. Kooralbyn in the local aboriginal language means "land of the copperhead," a poisonous viper. I’d heard that Australia has more things that can kill you than anywhere else in the world, including sharks, crocodiles, riptides, toxic caterpillars, box jellyfish and the 10 most deadly snakes on the planet. "Seen any on the course?" I asked Barry West, the head pro. "Not in the eight years I’ve been here, but I guarantee you’ll see ’roos," he replied. And the pro was as good as his word. Kangaroos and wallabies were as plentiful here as elk on courses in Banff or Canada geese in Toronto. They were even sprawled out in the bunkers. (And, no, they don’t rake.) In fact, with all the marsupials, flocks of brilliantly plumed lorikeets and noisy ducks, it felt as if we were playing golf in a game park.

We agreed to splurge on a side trip to the Great Barrier Reef–I figured all that money we’d saved on hotel and car expenses easily justified the excursion. Pulling on wet suits, we followed a marine biologist on an unforgettable tour of underwater life: fluorescent titan fish, swimming upside-down; giant clamshells; swaying coral in all shapes and shades. Tiny bubbles from Bill’s fins in front of me gave the intoxicating impression that I was bobbing in a surreal sea of champagne.

Back in Broadbeach Waters, we had a few more days to soak up the sun, do some laundry, water the plants and give the Gallants’ house and car a good cleaning. The month had flown by.

We returned home to find our house just as we had left it, except that my oven was cleaner. The refrigerator was stocked with bacon, eggs, milk and bread, and there was a thank-you note from the Gallants on the kitchen table.

Beginner’s luck? Maybe, but I can’t wait for the new home-exchange catalogue. In the meantime, I’m surfing the Net for something in the south of France. Or, who knows, Rio de Janeiro?

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