This April, more than 600 landlords, real estate agents and small-property managers traveled to a swanky resort in San Diego to get advice from Jesse Vasquez. A former salesperson at a hospice- care company, Vasquez now manages more than a dozen properties, in addition to his side hustle coaching his peers. “We don’t have to be relying on Airbnb,” Vasquez told his audience. “Don’t allow these big companies to supply your clients. Build your own house on your own freakin’ land.”
Airbnb, the world’s biggest short-term rental platform, is thriving—it added more than a million active listings in 2023 while posting a record profit. Its hosts, at least those in the US, not so much. Through May of this year, earnings for US hosts had declined in 22 of the past 28 months, according to analytics firm AirDNA. Hosts blame oversupply, regulatory changes and Airbnb Inc.’s own policies. Some, like those at Vasquez’s event, think the solution is to cut out Airbnb altogether.
In part, this is what always happens when people rely on internet platforms to make a living. It’s akin to Uber drivers asking passengers to call them directly the next time they need a ride, or YouTube influencers and TikTok celebrities cutting side deals with brands to secure advertising income they won’t have to split with the platforms. Who likes a middleman?
On Airbnb, there’s a specific opportunity in the shift to mid-term rentals—stays of longer than 30 days but shorter than the leases people sign for their primary apartments. Attracting enough new people to rent an apartment once or twice a week essentially requires a service like Airbnb. If you’re only looking for a few renters a year, it becomes more reasonable to find them yourself.
In practice, though, this strategy is often a way to supplement Airbnb income rather than replace it entirely. Vivian Yip, an Austin-based host who came to Vasquez’s conference, began the shift several years ago and has done well enough to quit her day job. Her property management company now includes more than 20 homes. Still, she relies on Airbnb for half of her bookings. “I’m not strong enough to replace Airbnb,” she says.
Chief Executive Officer Brian Chesky has downplayed the importance of individual hosts circumventing Airbnb’s services. In an email, a spokesperson added that the company offers benefits that are hard to replicate, including background checks, payment processing and insurance. “When bookings and communication move off our platform, we are no longer able to ensure hosts and guests are covered by our extensive built-in protections and support,” they wrote.
Airbnb wants to hold on to those hosts who are focused on longer stays, a group that’s bigger than it was before the pandemic. It’s tailoring its platform to appeal to them. Last summer, for instance, it reduced service fees for stays of more than three months.
For now, the mid-term segment is dominated by large companies such as Anyplace, Blueground and June Homes, but smaller players are also setting up their own booking websites, drawing renters in with lower prices for properties also listed on Airbnb or Vrbo.
For some hosts, the trick is not to find renters one by one but to form relationships with institutions that will bring in regular business. These can be companies helping their employees relocate, or insurers and government agencies in search of temporary housing for displaced families or contract workers.
The interest in direct bookings creates an opportunity for businesses such as Furnished Finder LLC, which charges $100 annually for listings rather than taking a commission. Interest in the site spiked last fall when New York City effectively banned short-term apartment rentals, and in October the platform added more homes than in any month of its 10-year history, according to CEO Jeff Hurst.
Today, Furnished Finder has 300,000 listings in the US. It’s a far cry from Airbnb’s 7.7 million globally, but the company is profitable and plans to hire more engineers and product managers, says Hurst, who was hired in late 2023, one of a wave of former Vrbo employees who’ve migrated to the company.
The hunger to develop alternate strategies to find tenants is a big reason people were willing to pay the $897 Vasquez charged for his conference. He talks up the benefits of rental hosts referring potential clients to one another. “The mid-term space is all about connections,” he says.
Vasquez rented out his first mid-term property to a travel nurse in 2015, then built up his portfolio by making a housing deal with his local hospital in Modesto, California, and managing other people’s rentals. He now brings in more than $80,000 a month in profit.
His social media following exploded after he appeared on a real estate investing podcast last year. The increasing prominence provided a significant boost for what has become an even bigger source of income for Vasquez than rental housing: giving other people advice about rental housing.
After the podcast episode, Vasquez got more than 300 new students for his yearlong mentorship program, which costs $6,500. He says his online mentorship program turned a $1.3 million profit last year. The conference attracted 60 more sign-ups, adding to the 450 people who’ve taken the course. Profit is once again projected to top $1 million. “It’s so crazy to feel like this movement is happening,” he says, “and I get to be a catalyst.”
Source: Bloomberg Business Week
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