couch surfing

I continue to be stupefied by my flat-mates' apparent lack of common sense or cerebral matter.

In the very same chill sesh in which I found out that Pillsbury sent Kit-Kat bars to the top finance and banking firms in Hong Kong (refer to "The Candy Man Can't"), the kiwi mentioned that he had just joined the couch surfing movement.

Couch surfing (see www.couchsurfing.com) is like a combination of Craigslist, timesharing, hostels, and budget traveling. The way it works is, you join an online community in which each member offers his couch for other wayfarers to crash on, and when you travel to a new city, you can look up other members for a couch to crash on yourself. For free.

Like communism, it's a good idea in theory. But, like JP pointed out, it's also a recipe for mass murder.

I had heard of couch surfing once before, at a stand-up comedy show ("How to be funny in HK"). I didn't take it seriously then, and I don't now. Because I hope that the day when I am too destitute to afford a hostel never comes.

But Kiwi had signed himself up and was telling us about it enthusiastically. He seemed to really think it was like timesharing.

"You can even use the person's house if he's not there, and it can be like a little vacation," he said.

I don't know why I clung to the vain hope of knocking sense into him. "But all these things could go wrong--say, what if the guest steals your stuff, or damages your house, or even hurts you?" I asked. Somewhat rhetorically.

"There's a verification and rating system, it's very safe," the kiwi insisted. "Before the guest arrives, you friend each other on Facebook and check out each other's profiles."

"Yeah...but that still doesn't solve the problem," I pointed out. Was I dealing with someone with the sense of a 3-year-old?

"Well, see, if something like that happens, you have access to the couch surfer's closest friends and family on Facebook. You could write on his wall, 'So-and-so is a dishonest person and took my things.' "

I was so numbed with stupefaction that, for one of the few times in my life, I was completely speechless. Finally I mustered a response. If you can't beat 'em, don't join 'em, but at least humor 'em. "Well...what if he unfriends you?"

The kiwi didn't really have a response for that.

------
2 days later: my inbox:
From: Kiwi
To: me
Subject: saturday guest

hi vivien, sorry to msg. you at work, just to let you know, im hosting a couch surfer tomorrow night, hes a indian business man named kiruba, arriving sat. afternoon and leaving first thing on sunday. he looks like an interesting guy, here is his profile if your interested in finding out more about him:
www.kiruba.com/aboutme.html or
blog.nasscom.in/nasscom2008/index.php?page_id=23
hope this does not inconveniance your wknd plans, let me know if there are any problems
cheers
kiwi

I didn't really have a choice but to say "OK." And I didn't bother checking out Kiruba's profile. But a few thoughts crossed my mind, in this order:

1. What if he's a serial rapist? I'd be fucked. Or Pillsbury maybe. But considering that I am the only female, and the weakest person, in this apartment, I would be the one that gets messed with.

2. If he were really an Indian businessman, wouldn't he be staying in at least a 3-star hotel?

Saturday night, I hung out with some Harvard bankers and stayed out pretty late. I came back to the flat around 4:30 am. As I turned the key in the lock of the front door, it occurred to my bleary appletini-soaked mind that the couch surfer would supposedly be on the couch right now.

There he was, the "Indian businessman." He was Indian, all right. He was lying on the couch, with the lights on, staring up into space. As I came in and mumbled a quick "Sorry" without making eye contact, he sat upright and adjusted the couch cushions to pad his back. I went to the bathroom before collapsing for the night.

When I emerged and stumbled to my room he was still sitting upright on the couch looking into space.

The next morning I woke up at the ungodly hour of 10am to attend church with my surrogate mei-mei's family. (I'm not very religious but they are very kind and I like seeing them, which makes it easier to believe in a just God.)

By the time I woke up, the couch surfer was already gone. All that he left behind was shards of our full-length mirror, which he had broken on the way out. (Thank God I wear slippers everywhere in our flat, unlike my uncivilized flat-mates.)

At least he had left my celibacy intact. In this day and age, that is the best a young woman can hope for from a couch surfer.