Couch surfing the world

My sister just sort of looked at me with one eyebrow raised. Everybody else posed immediate questions: "How could you trust somebody in your house?" or "Aren't you afraid they will rob you?" 

I in turn asked them how they could agree to go on a date with somebody they met on Facebook. I'm just letting a stranger crash on my couch.

Raymond, a fat, hairy Dutchman told me about the couch surfing movement first on a beach in Ecuador. Others boasted of the keys they were given to an apartment in Paris. "It's called couch surfers," I was told. I had practically perfected the couch surf in the past, spending weeks on end without ever seeing a bed, so I was pretty interested. 

In Colombia, I met a guy who hosted couch surfers at his place in Santa Marta. He was a journalist, and we talked about differences in the profession between our countries. Colombia has the second highest number of journalists killed after Iraq. He told me of threats he received over stories he produced. He made me feel a little better about journalism, and I told him that in my country, Anna Nicole Smith receives 10 times the coverage of the Iraq war. 

When I finally arrived back in Boston to my own glorious couch, I signed up for the service and emails followed. As a host, my first couch surfer was Joao, a freelance journalist from Portugal writing about Boston. He has also been around couch surfing since it was started two years ago. 

"It is the closest thing to traveling," he said. "If I can't be in another country, why not bring the travelers to me?" Joao reasoned. And so it began. I got to be a tourist in my city, which everybody should try more often. I visited Jack Kerouac's grave in Lowell with one surfer. I walked the Freedom Trail with two Dutch girls, showing off my (nonexistent) knowledge of all things Boston. I watched jazz with some Brazilian au pairs.

So far, of all the couch surfers I have met and the few I have hosted, none have had a horror story, or even much of a bad story, about the system. (I know after submitting this perspective, my fate may change.) I know that you can't hitchhike anymore, and it's not a good idea to leave your doors unlocked in Allston at all times, but there is nothing wrong with trusting people every once in a while.

The innocence is refreshing. It is something that involves trust and a little faith in people, and it seems to be catching on. We have spent our entire lives being pumped full of fear by our government, the media, our parents, our university and the police. In spite of this, there are people who still hitchhike. There are people who invite strangers in their houses. And despite everything pointing to the problems of war, the hopeless state of our generation and our ruined situation abroad, some things might not be so bad. Movements like the couch surfers are proof.

Must be a bunch of weirdos and naive hippies, you are probably thinking. While I'll admit I do get invited to more vegan-only picnics in the Common by the Boston couch surfers group than I'd prefer, couch surfers are everywhere. Maybe it is how people perceive the name couch surfer: a homeless moocher stinking up your couch, usually drunk or high. Sounds like my original reasons for being skeptical, but come on, that is a little harsh.

It doesn't matter too much. CouchSurfing.com is gaining over two thousand new members a week. They have just created a special team charged with organizing groups around the world, putting them up in a place in Thailand for a few months to get organized. All over the world, the "cool" kids at the hostels boast about the network. There were at least 299,000 members from 220 different countries last I checked. The possibilities are endless: Just sign up, pick a destination and write a lovely email. Why not stay for free, meet some locals and absorb some of the culture? You can't say you really saw any city without having a drink with a local at a local bar, can you?