Миша Чинков - Кауч

– [Me]: Chris, tell me, how do you imagine your old age?

– [Chris]: I want to live in Costa Rica, it’s shiny and cheap there.

– [Me]: Sounds great.

After eating burgers for lunch in a food court, we try to part our ways in subway. Chris is heading to the Cinema for a janitor job interview. He tells me about Arlington National Cemetery, and that’s where I’m heading. DC subway might be rightly considered one of the worst in the world: expensive, unclear price policy and scheduled trains doing “ass-backwards” routes. At some point, our train stops for ten minutes. Running late for the interview, Chris rushes out of the car at the nearest station hoping to find a more practical mean of transport.

In the evening, we meet at home.

– [Me]: How was it, did you get on time for the interview?

– [Chris]: Yeah, just on time. It went well, they should be hiring me.

– [Me]: You are a smart guy, why do you need this cleaner job?

– [Chris]: Well, that’s temporary.

In think there’s something wrong in your American dream.

Teresa has a two-story house in Pittsburgh’ suburbs and rents out a room there on Airbnb. There is a handmade wedding dresses store. Laura herself has no family or kids. She rents two rooms in the house for Nasrat, an exchange student from Afghanistan, and Ostin, a security guy from Florida.

– [Teresa]: How old are you?

– [Me]: Nineteen.

– [Teresa]: I would give you twelve max.

Laura has wide bulging eyes, serious face and officious cold tone of voice. Despite the first impression, I soon plunge into the atmosphere of the hostess’ warmth. Teresa tries to give me as much warmth as she physically can.

– [Teresa]: Make yourself at home.

– [Me, inwardly]: Just don’t forget to knock before entering .

Ostin feels a bit easier to speak to. Despite all possible clichés – his large size and guard job – Ostin is quite a melancholic type of person. He worries about our future, worries about the questions we have to answer to move forward in life. I was only nineteen and couldn't comprehend many of his thoughts, never mind a twelve-year-old look.

I think that was much of a heartwarming Airbnb, though I didn’t have a chance to speak to Nasrat – it would be interesting to learn how he got his name 4 4 In Russian language, nasrat’ translates as “shitting” .

Mary and Robert in Columbus – a typical young family in American suburbia. They both work at school: Mary is a teacher, Robert's a counselor. In childhood, Mary went to France for an exchange program and lived there with a local family. She liked the spirit of hospitality for strangers. That’s why she decided to become a host.

The first day I meet Robert while Mary works late hours. We spend an hour chatting and drinking coffee when Robert suggests going to a student house show. As for someone who’s not experienced in student life, I am all in.

Wednesday evening, student apartment, party with an indescribable atmosphere of youth. Music scene down the basement. You can hear a mix of beatbox and some electronics. Half an hour later, Robert and I leave the basement, say hello to some of his old pals and meet some new.

I see a girl in a Nirvana T-shirt. Nirvana is an idolized deity for a concrete jungle boy I am. Before my trip to the States, I learned English by listening to their songs and write the most beautiful idioms out in my personal dictionary. I fancied picking up local girls with quotes from their songs, like “ I wish I could eat your cancer ” 5 5 The bar from Nirvana song called “Heart-shaped Box” . In the end of the day, I didn’t really speak to her.

The next entire day I roam around Ohio State University campus. Columbus doesn’t have much to offer, so I focus on exploring American student lifestyle: attending mathematical analysis classes, doing small talk with a football team mascot, interviewing protesters disappointed with the quality of the campus food.

I think the folks here are having fun speaking to an alien interested in the way things are here.

Having left the Chicago bus station, I jump into the car of my host Charlie. Charlie looked like a real baron from a gypsy camp – a sturdy, positive infused guy. The big guy like him came along with a big car.

– [Charlie]: Look who’s here! My Russian man!

– [Me]: From Russia with love.

On our way to Charles’ apartment, I feel like the guy knows absolutely everything about Chicago: every building, most likely every citizen.

– [Charlie]: You see that high-rise? That’s the Trump Tower, the most despised building in Chicago.

– [Me]: You think Trump will win next elections? (2016)

– [Charlie]: Impossible, he has too few supporters.

Charlie works as a tour guide in a local company and knows Chicago like the back of his hand. He lives in a newly built two-room apartment on the fifteenth floor. He is around fifty and lives alone. His mother, sister and some cousins live in Chicago, too.

There’s one thing in Chicago that interests me more than the city itself – Riot Fest, with System of a Down and The Prodigy as headliners.

After the first day of the festival, I come to Charlie’s home with lots of emotions and dirt in my pants. Heavy rain turned a park lawn into a mess. I’m knee-deep in mud, there is no way to guess the color of my sneakers.

– [Me]: Charles, look at that mess on my pants and snickers. What are we going to do?

– [Charlie]: Ha-ha, you better do some striptease before entering my apartment!

– [Me]: Fair enough. [ I take off my pants and snickers and pack them in a bag from IKEA Charles gives me ]

At the dinner after the second Fest day, I’m impressed when Charlie shows an interest in Russia. He’s concerned with Russian province. He realizes life there differs from life in Moscow. I make some calculations to convert average monthly salary – 25 thousand rubles – to dollars.

I think at that point, Charles' mouth fell open.

Buffalo, 9 a.m., my host Bob is already at work. The station sends its first buses at 10, the only alternative is $50 taxi. Annoyed, I strategically choose waiting in the hall with a rubber hot dog in my arms.

[Bob]: “The keys are under the rug. Don’t hesitate to come inside. Don’t mind the dog“.

This man leaves the keys from the house to a stranger he has nothing to do with, for a chatting in an app for cultural homestays. How is that even possible? How can you trust people so much?

The dog Pinky was astounded by the presence of an unwelcomed guest, but didn’t bite me. I leave my bugs in the living room and go explore the city. Buffalo is yet another place in my tour where there’s not much to do, though it doesn’t bother me anymore. I’m staring at the nearest embankment, cracking up as I see a half-dead tram proudly called “Metro”, sneaking to the baseball team stadium bleachers.

As the evening comes, I meet Bob with his bunch as they play kickball. Kickball is like baseball: instead of batting a small hard ball, players kick a big pumped rubber ball. They’re drinking beer from aluminum cans in-between the “innings” and I’m just puzzling my head over how they manage to combine one with the other.

Bob was born in San-Francisco and grew up in that holy place. He moved to Buffalo five years ago. Bob got tired of Silicon Valley and rat races for all that glitters: from behind-the-scene games to green notes with Franklin portrait, from nootropics to cryptocurrency. Bob’s willing to go smoothly through the life in an American suburbia way. He’s up and running here: white collar job from nine to five, a devoted doggy, great pals, occasional girls, house on lease and local puny teams to give you a minute for cheering. Pretty much the same goes for Bob – he is a nice, calm guy who knows how to have fun and so helps others.

Bob showed me the room I was supposed to be all on my own. He assured me I could take everything I wanted from the refrigerator and gave me instructions how to look after Charlie.

[Bob]: “If Pinky goes nuts – open the yard door, point him a finger on the road and command – Go pee. Right after he pees, make sure he runs back inside the house. I don’t want him locked in the yard – he’s gonna be stressed, poor boy“.

Having finished with Pinky, I take a bus to Niagara Falls. Water runs intensely under the cliff. There’s a footbridge to Canada right to the waterfall. Having left the park, I stumble upon locals complaining about extremely high crime rates, absence of decent job places and other drawbacks of life in a tourist city.

When I return to Buffalo, Bob and his pal comes to pick me up. We go to a bar. At the table, Bob offers to check out a masterpiece of the local cuisine – Buffalo chicken wings.

– [Bob]: If you eat up a portion of twenty wings, I’ll give you a ride to the station tomorrow morning.

– [Me]: You know, I’m hungry as hell, never mind paying damn fifty dollars for a taxi – so that’s a bet.

– [Bob’s pal]: You have it.

Having an empty stomach since the morning, I am swallowing these wings as if in a speed contest. I nail it eventually, though that must be gross to look at. During the breaks between my gluttony sprints, we have some funny exchanges:

– [Bob]: How do you say “yes“ in Russian?

– [Me]: “Da“.

– [Bob]: And “no“?

– [Me]: “Njet“.

– [Bob]: That’s it, now I can survive in Russia with my vocabulary: “da“, “njet“ and “vodka“.

In the morning, Bob drives me to the station. I think he’s a cool guy, because he kept his promise.

My new host Richard gives me some weird vibes when we text. He sets rules like “sleep naked“ as clothes damage the air mattress. He sends a lot of long messages the days before the trip, introduces all guests by the country they’re from – Russia, Greece, China – as if we have an international gang-bang instead of a co-living. Doesn’t matter much for me, though – there’s a couch, and the rest are mere details. Am I supposed to part with my hard-earned dollars to spend a night at Uncle Sam’s hotel? I'd better see how homos live.

Besides the bags with booze which I’d utilized my whole five months of American life, I carry some undigested chicken wings in my stomach. Twenty wings are a serious challenge for the body, better have a hangover. Looks like my body threw all reserves to help the stomach and screwed my brain. That’s the only way I can explain the fact I left my credit card in a ticket machine. That piece of plastic gives to lucky one access to all the money I've earned in four months of slaving away in the States. Such hard-earned money is so easy to lose.

I come to Richard and start to exhaust both myself and him with disturbing thoughts concerning the fate of my card. Richard immediately turns on a “fixer mode“ and calls to the bank hotline. Twenty minutes later the problem is solved: the card is blocked, and a new untitled one will be waiting for me on Monday in the nearest banking department. I only have to survive Sunday with 10 dollars cash.

Before we go to bed, I use my last bits of energy to put up private borders.

[Me]: “I will sleep in clothes. And that's that“.

Sometimes such ultimatums may get you kicked out, but not with Richard – he’s a cool guy, and he accepts it.

He is fifty, born and raised in Boston. A bit taller than me, bald, odd accent. But he’s a good fella with a kind heart. He is on welfare now because of a wrist break. His whole life he works with his hands, so such traumas cut the ground under his feet.