In China, my friend warned me of the perils of couchsurfing each time I mentioned it. To him, it was akin to inviting danger into your door. To me, it represented freedom, a chance to meet up with a local, and as always, an opportunity to travel for cheap.
The website,
Couchsurfing.org, runs officialy as a forum for travelers to meet up, exchange knowledge and as the name allures, surf. The
surfing, however, involves only the adventure of sleeping on another's couch, futon, floor or if you're really lucky, a spare bed for FREE.
So, with my (significantly) reduced monthly salary in Spain and the higher cost of European living, Couchsurfing became more than small-talk. It was travel survival.
I sent my first surf proposal to another American in Toledo, Spain. The city of three religious pasts: Moorish, Catholic and Jewish. It's Medieval charm extends from its historic mosques, cathedrals and synagogues, to swords, its most famous export. Indeed a favorite for any soul who wished to be a crushing Crusader in a previous life, or pretend to be one in this life, today.
I was in Madrid for the weekend to get my computer fixed, but had spied previously on my map of Spain's highlights that Toledo is just one hour, by bus, south of Spain's largest city.
(Atop one of Toledo's cathedrals, looking down on the maze that is the historic center)
(Walking along the river and contemplating Spain's past))
Getting a host was easy, arriving was painless (I actually took the train, which was only 30 minutes, bonus), and my host, Mike, a fellow Midwesterner and English teacher, was funny, gracious and knew all the tricks to hosting. We climbed the creaky stairs to the top of the Cathedral (see photo above), ate tapas in the bright January sun and walked along the river, which skirts the city and gives further hints of another former life, the role as a mighty Medivel fortress. We discussed the expectations of young Americans to jump on the corporate ladder of success or if that fails, graduate school, and the reactions from family, friends and soceity if you run the opposite direction and teach English in Spain.
I returned to the olive trees of Baeza refreshed and confident that my friend in China was more than wrong, he was missing out.
In round two, I wanted to see Sevilla, the capital of Andalucía and an uncontested destination for bullfighting aficionados, flamenco enthusiasts, and partygoers who prefer to shake it to dawn and beyond. As an American study abroad favorite of Spain, I knew I had to go. (In fact, Sevilla is haunted by Americans attempting to learn Spanish, against the added difficulty of the Andaluz accent). I was getting desperate to step out of my English-speaking mold; after all, I didn't come to Spain to meet more Americans.
(A flamenco dress shop in Sevilla)
Facilitating cross-cultural interactions is one of Couchsurfing's unofficial missions. And while most Spaniards don't know about Couchsurfing, finding a Spanish host in Spain is clearly not impossible. So, Salvador, a computer science student at Sevilla's university became my next host. Friendly, but lacking any flames to ignite a friendship, he welcomed me into his apartment and life for the weekend, per protocol. We discussed travel, attitudes of Americans vs. Spaniards, the likelihood of seeing a sheriff wearing a star badge (I informed him that his chances were nil), and I even said hello to his girlfriend via Skype, who's currently studying in France.
,
(Sevilla's monument to the World Fair, the Plaza de España, 1929)
It followed all expectations, except the obvious expectation, my host showed me nothing of Sevilla, except the inside of his apartment. I was alone in the city, but not thwarted by this setback. I could still discover my own Sevilla, but the unexpected cold of the day was only worsened by the random torrents of rain, which just mirrored my mood, disappointment mixed with a sudden swell of homesickness.
I chalked the weekend up to a failed operation, like a military cadet in training, it was part of the risk of joining.
A few hours before my bus back, I planted myself at an outdoor cafe. I read the end of my latest nonfiction book (Dark Star Safari; Overland from Cairo to Capetown by Paul Theroux) and sipped a Starbucks latte. Homesickness can sometimes be fought with nutmeg and caffeinated nostaligia. Plus, as Theroux reminded me, I wasn't riding in a poultry van in the middle of Africa.
Then I got a text; Salvador wanted to know when I would be returning to get my bag. You should take a taxi, he urged. I smiled at the thoughtfulness until I realized why he mentioned the cab. Daylight Savings was today and my Spanish phone had failed to notify me. I bolted and did that sprint-walk thing you see people do when they're late, to no luck. I arrived to the station 20 minutes too late.
The next bus headed East left at 10 p.m. As my newly-adjusted watch told me, that was eight hours later. I bought the ticket to the nearest city of Linares and headed out, defeated, and another 24 Euros lighter.
I stopped into a Chino (Cultural note: convenient shops are often called this in Spain. Why? The owners are often Chinese, naturally, and usually the only places open on a Sunday), where I bought Spain's leading leftist newspaper, El País, and some satisfying junk food. I needed to emotionally refuel. I wandered until I finally found a grassy spot by the river that wasn't studded with glass bottle shards to sulk in the sun. I sat, eavesdropping without wanting to, on English conversations from the gathered groups of American study abroad students, "I hear all the hottest Spanish men live in Córdoba. Did you sleep with him? Oh my god...She doesn't know Spanish at all" until I fell asleep and the banter finally lost its meaning.
I awoke with six hours to go. After an emotional indulgance of crisps, I left the clumps of American students and walked to Sevilla's infamous bull ring, overloaded with my pack, newspaper, and the rubbish of the previously mentioned junk food. With the unexpected expense of a second bus ticket, I decided to forgo the six Euro entrance fee to the ring and left to wile away my time with something cheaper, wine.
(I wish I had been drinking wine here with friends in Pucón, Chile, a throwback from 2009)
To shorten this story, as needed, time collasped upon itself, like always. Ten o'clock came and I was waiting at the bus station. I discovered my bus actually continued onward to Baeza, the good news. I got on and intended to keep riding until I saw the familiar signs of my small city. I assumed it wouldn't be a problem, until I noticed one small detail. The bus driver was counting heads in the same manner I knew well from summer camp. At my stop, Linares, he paused as he recounted again. Yep, an extra head.
At this point, I was paralyzed with fear. Clearly my plan had backfired, but what could I do? I didn't want to get out. Concerned, the driver flicked on the overhead bus lights without warning,"Billetes!" Tickets! There was no please.
I tried to wave the annoyed bus driver to my seat quickly, before everyone woke up, but my silent waving failed. Finally he got to me and my now sweat-soaked ticket, "Why didn't you say something earlier?" He asked, in the least friendly tone.
"I tried," I attempted to explain in Spanish, but with the mathematical inverse of decreasing confidence and increasing nervousness. "Could I pay the two extra Euros to Baeza?"
I had one option, he firmly responded, it was to get off the bus. right. away.
Flushed with shame, I collected my belongings, forgetting my favorite scarf, a souvenir from Lisbon, as I shuffled off. Looks of confusion and pity followed me until five seconds later the bus pulled away, leaving me alone in the darkness of the Linares bus station at 2:30 in the chilly morning.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, I mumured in time to my prancing. I was alone with no one to overhear me.
By car, Baeza is a 25 minute drive away from Linares, but the deserted station had no trace of litter from any cabbie's advertising. I stood, cursing the ground, and willing tears to not sprout from my embarrased core. It was part of the adventure, right?
I was waiting by the side of the road in the hope of catching a passing taxi, like a hunter waiting for its prey in the wild, when I noticed a moving shadow. My only instinct was to follow. This could be the only other person out there! The movement led to a light, which led, amazingly enough, to an emergency health clinic. Victory! I collected myself and my thoughts, took a deep breath, and started the story of explaining myself, again.
"You came a long way," the attendent in the clinic said with admiration. He was more shocked that I was an American living in Baeza than my failure to arrive there properly on a bus.
Thirty-five Euros later, a taxi dropped me off in Baeza. I directed him to the Plaza de Toros (Baeza's bullfighting ring) and finally my apartment. He'd never taken anyway to this destination before.
(Sometimes solo "adventures" suck, the photo is just outside my apartment, a different night.)
The time: 3:15 a.m.
