Миша Чинков - Кауч

To the readers of my telegram channel Paranoid Android for their interest in my texts. I wouldn’t have the guts to write this book without you.

To my colleagues in hobby-writing for inspiration and support: Marina Solntseva, Dasha Suomi, Aina.

To Anna Permyakova for great book cover.

To IT industry for the money I could save to spend three months without making a living. I don’t know when I would be able to write this book without these three months. I guess, never.

To all the hosts and surfers for the mutual experience, for the chemistry that keeps the memories of the past alive. Due to privacy concerns, names in the stories are replaced with fictional ones.

To you, my dear reader, for opening this book in the first place. I hope you’ll like it.

Couchsurfing(also couch) – one of the biggest communities of independent travelers. Unites more than 6 million people over 246 countries. Its members offer free homestay during travelling and organize trips together.

Couchsurfer– member of the Couchsurfing community.

Host– a person who offers homestay; to host – to offer a homestay.

Surfer– a person in search of a homestay; to surf – to stay over.

Having finished the first university year in Penza, my hometown in the ass end of nowhere, I spent my summer holidays trying to move to Saint Petersburg. Initially I wanted to leave and become a bartender, though a figure of a military commissar 1 1 A servant in a Military commissariat whose duties, amongst others, include issue of draft cards to men who reach draft age. – horny for idle boys to recruit – blew it off. Another way was to transfer to Saint Petersburg State University. Alas, the academic deficiency of 13 subjects was too much to overcome despite my success in the entry exam.

Pretty soon, I had to take a backseat with moving. A quick 5-day visit to Petersburg turned my world picture inside out. I’ve seen the whole world without leaving Russia. Dazzling beauty of streets and yards was a common thing in this world. People travel all over this world: sometimes carrying Dostoevsky's anguish or Mayakovski's pep. I fell for anthropology and embraced the spirit of wanderlust into my soul.

Having returned to Penza I spent the rest of the summer quarrelling with father, working as a courier in the tax office and hanging out with strangers. That summer was much better than the previous ones as I was obsessed with computer games, poisonous pubertal virginity, thoughts about teen suicide and fear for the future. Still, that summer was boring, so I was making my plans for the next one.

That’s how I got that idea to go to the States via Work&Travel. Many students knew about it, but few would actually try it out. I saw the goal, not the obstacles. I was able to save money for the first payment by working small jobs, and I was lucky to make it before the ruble collapsed. For the second payment I borrowed money from my mother which I returned to the cent upon the end of the program. It took me half a year to improve my English to look smart enough at the interview in Moscow U.S. Embassy. I even managed to surprise my interviewer by knowing a bunch of hotline numbers by heart.

I had one month left before the trip. Finished the summer session ahead of schedule and was looking forward to having a great time. I didn’t want my Work&Travel to slide into Work&Work, so I planned a trip across the States. Just draw a circle route between the biggest points eastwards and closed it in New York.

The only question was where to live. That’s when I learned about CouchSurfing. Honestly, I can’t really recall how I found it. Most likely it came across in one of those TED videos watched millions of times. I instantly fell in love with an idea of multicultural homestays. I felt vibes of freedom, adventure spirit and desire to discover something new.

The States seemed both familiar and strange piece of land for a Russian. I’ve had no idea of the subtleties of life overseas. What's important for them, what worries them, what they dream of.

CouchSurfing seemed like a perfect place to get comprehensive answers to such complicated questions.

I live in New Jersey and have an occasional commute to New York by train – I go there in the morning and go back in the evening. New York reminds me of my mission in the States. Right now, I’m on my way to New York to stay over so that I see more and feel better. I need a couch.

Before my moving to the States, I asked my friends from an English-speaking club to write some reviews for me on couch; however, three reviews like “his English very good” weren’t all too impressive to find a host. Suddenly, as if according to the canons of Batman comics, a guy named Robin came to help. Robin migrated to New York from the Philippines a few years ago. He lived in a sort of communal apartment and worked as a physiatrist.

10 p.m., Brooklyn, Utica Street subway station. I feel weird as it's bloody dark around here. People say it’s dangerous out there at night. It turns out, it's easier to love Brooklyn from afar – when you see it through 90s hip-hop songs. Reality is different.

Robin meets me at the entrance with friendliness, uncommon for a stranger. He notices my skinny body, worn out by overtime hours. We go to a store and get some food, so there’s something to stuff me up. We sleep in a single bed – nothing new for someone who spent the whole summer in one king-size bed with a guy called Bogdan.

Robin left to work earlier than I woke up. During breakfast, I got to meet Robin’s roommates: Maxi from France, Karim from Tunis and Ahmed from Syria. Maxi came to New York for a month to learn cooking local thick crust pizza. Karim and Ahmed worked in a Middle Eastern restaurant.

– [Me]: Ahmed, I believe you have a war in Syria, how do you feel about it?

– [Ahmed, smiling]: I don’t watch TV.

Robin ended up leaving me no review on Couch. I think I must have offended him somehow.

At the Philadelphia bus station, my host Jim is waiting for me.

Jim is 28. Afro-American, originally from South Carolina, bald, average height, works as a nurse in a hospital. Strictly speaking, Jim doesn't live in the city itself, but in its suburb township Abington. It takes half an hour by train to get there from Philadelphia city center, and around twenty minutes more on foot from the train station to Jim’s house. Jim lives in a classic American house with his girlfriend.

The evening we spent together with his girlfriend drinking hard liquor, smoking bong and gobbling pizza from delivery. Jim ecstatically tells me about the benefits of marijuana. We read a themed journal he gets by subscription.

Jim left to work early in the morning. I have breakfast alone and notice his girlfriend is still home. I opened the door.

– [Me]: Hi! Would you like to keep me company on the way to the train station? You are going to the University, don’t you?

– [The girl]: Thanks, but I still have things to do here.

3 p.m.. I’m walking around the town, do sightseeing, get disappointed in the local delicacy Cheese Steak. Jim’s calling.

– [Jim]: My girlfriend told me you entered her room without knocking.

– [Me]: Well, yeah, my mistake.

– [Jim]: You disappointed me.

– [Me]: I get it, sorry.

– [Jim hangs up.]

On my way back home, I buy an ice-cream bucket and prepare a thousand apologies.

– [Jim]: Pack your shit and get the hell out!

– [Me]: Please, let me explain…

– [Jim]: Nothing to explain here, pack your shit and get out!

A cultural shock overtook me. There was a huge contrast between the society I grew in and the one I find myself in here and now. My parents never knocked the door before entering my room. In New Jersey I lived with a crowd of students and private boundaries had nothing to do with it. Someone could wake me up at 1 a.m. asking for weed which I never had. I can’t say I liked it, I just … got used to it. And here we are: all I did was just opening the door without knocking. And now I’ve got a harassment accusation for that.

That was my one-way trip from “welcomed guest” to “filthy scumbag”.

9 p.m., the last train to Philadelphia. Three heavy suitcases and there’s my whole life. I drag these suitcases across downtown pavement. Late in the evening, American downtown sucks. People don’t live in business centers, so deserted skyscrapers welcome all sorts of outcasts and lowlifes when working shifts are over. Looks like a poor “Mafia” storyline: town goes to sleep, rabble wakes up. Scared and pissed off, I run into the first hostel that comes to my eyes. No free beds there, but the girl at the reception calls another hostel and gets me a bed there for a couple of nights. I’m safe – I have a place to stay over.

Hey Jim, I think you must have taken me wrong, bro!

Next on the line is Baltimore.

I enter the home of my host, Diego, and immediately feel an alluring smell – he is cooking dinner.

– [Diego]: what about mayonnaise?

– [Me]: I hate mayonnaise.

– [Diego]: why so rude?

– [Me]: You see, for me, “Baltimore” is a ketchup 2 2 Baltimore (yes, like the city in Maryland) is a brand initially famous for its ketchup. As many other Russians, I first learned about this brand because it sponsored a popular comedy show “Gorodо́k” (“Small Town”), which ran from the 90s through the 2010s. .

Diego is from Columbia. He moved to Baltimore half a year ago. He never had any steady profession or job: he kept doing some side job or volunteering, focusing on traveling. In Baltimore, he got a job of sysadmin in a local school. Diego himself is a simple, easygoing guy. Hanging out with him is nothing but pleasure.

Baltimore looks just like Tyler Durden – it has two faces. One of them is ugly, with bums in downtown, crime activities and atmosphere of some kind of total fear. Every local I met on my way asked me to be careful. The other face is nice with hipster features, tons of places to visit, stories and feeling that the town is somehow special. That’s the Baltimore Diego shows me in the evening.

We speak about travelling, adventures and hobbies. It turned out Diego also participated in Work&Travel (not in the States though, but in Australia). Our conversation passes too quickly: we go back home and sleep. The next morning, Diego is at work.

I think Diego is like me – but seven years older and some thirty centimeters taller.

Washington DC is not the best place for couch. I managed to find Airbnb somewhere far in the suburbia.

– [Chris]: How’re you doing?

– [Me]: Fine.

Chris is from Nashville, Tennessee. He is volunteering in Peace Corps 3 3 An aid agency that sends volunteers to help poor countries here in DC. The day before my arrival he got expelled from university where he supposed to get a second degree. He looks upset.

Sunday, Labor Day. Chris joins me in my trip around the town. He is one of those locals who don’t do sightseeing unless invited for a company. First thing in the morning we go to the museum of ancient history where you can see lots of artifacts. Next thing we go around the US Capitol surrounded by scaffolds, walk across the town, explore colorful houses, parks, fountains, discuss history and politics. Chris remembers the 9/11 attacks, asking this and that about Russia at the same time.