Chinchilla Shit and Other Things

Sorry, all. This is not eloquent, it's not pretty, there are no pictures, and it's not well-written. But it is honest and I think it needs to be out there for those who are considering CouchSurfing. You should, but please be careful.

Is that chinchilla shit on the floor? And is my bag sitting in it? This was not starting out well.

               I’d been couchsurfing successfully for about three weeks, and I had arrived in Copenhagen, looking forward to speaking Italian with my Italian PhD student host. Instead, I had arrived to a cramped apartment, two other couchsurfers, and with my host’s undisclosed roommate, Filo. And a fucking chinchilla.

               In all fairness, my host had let me know he wouldn’t be available to let me in. “It’s ok, my dear friend will let you in and I’ve already spoken with him about it.” Dear friend and roommate must be synonymous for Giuglio.  They are not to me. Dear friend connotes someone whom you know and like, but does not live with you. My host, Giulgio, definitely had a roommate.

               Filo let me in and meeting him was like a smack in the face. He took me in the way I’d seen the men of Amsterdam’s Red Light District take in the women window displays. He told me he'd call me Amy--that's not my name. He took every opportunity to make fun of me. He made me take off my shoes, despite the plentiful chinchilla shit that dotted the light-colored wood floor.

               The other thing I noticed when I walked in was the two women sitting at the table. I asked Filo, “So, are these your friends, or other couch surfers?” No one had mentioned that there would be two other people sleeping in the tiny two-bed (bed, not bedroom) flat.

               “Who, them? No, they’re the people that are going to be renting the flat starting tomorrow! So you and I are going to have to find another place to sleep!” He took a sip of his beer and laughed. I had no idea who the girls were. They laughed nervously, and I still didn’t know.      

               I did my best to make conversation. I learned that Filo was from Trieste, but did not consider himself Italian. “No, I am not Italian. I do not like football, I do not like pizza. I am not from there.” I asked him about his involvement with CouchSurfing. “I only do three things in life—work, create, and make connections.” Existential bullshit poured from his mouth, and I wanted to duct tape it shut.

               I noticed my inner flag go up. I didn’t feel in danger, but I felt very uncomfortable. I stepped out for a moment to visit the American girls I had met upstairs to see if I could borrow their internet to get myself a hostel for the night. They weren’t home. Instead, the five of us—Filo, the Taiwanese girls, and me—went grocery shopping.

               The girls and I bought the food we would wind up not eating and he bought the case of beer from which we’d take one beer each. It was not a good deal.

               While Filo made pasta, I overheard the conversation he was having with Yun Hua. He was asking her about exclusive relationships and what that meant to her. “So, you’re just having fun, right?” he asked her. “You’re not seriously dating anyone?” I dug into my makeup bag and slipped on my fake engagement ring. I looked up hostels for the following night. It was too late for the buses to be running, and I didn’t know if one could flag down a taxi in Copenhagen.

               Over dinner, I spoke about my (fake) fiancé, Danny. I saw Filo’s eyes go dark. He had instantly become bored with me. He cornered me in the kitchen afterwards and said to me, in Italian, “So, we have a sleeping situation to figure out.”

               “Yes, we do. There will be six of us here, tonight, including Giuglio. Where are we all going to sleep?” 

               He leaned against the wall and leaned in closer to me. “Well, you’re engaged, so I would like to preserve the beauty of that. Nothing will happen tonight if you sleep in my bed. But I would prefer it if you slept on the mattress on the floor with one of the girls—I think you know which—so that the other can sleep with me and I can have an opportunity with her.”

               How does one respond to this? How does a single female traveler in a male’s home respond to this?

               “Filo, I came to Copenhagen to see the city, not to manipulate people. If she doesn’t want to sleep in your bed, I’m not going to make her. I am not your accomplice.”

               “Sure you are!” He pushed my arm, like I was his buddy. Like I was the buddy that picked up the packages of condoms in his bathroom, in his bedside drawer, on the table…

               “No, I’m not. And if I have to sleep in your bed, nothing will happen. You swear?”

               And then he told me I was stupid for trying to get him to promise that. “You think that will make you safe? You’re silly.”

               I raised my voice and copped an attitude. He found it funny. I told him, once more, that if anything happened, I’d beat the shit out of him in the middle of the night. “Now, why would you say that? You think that if someone wants to harm you that you saying that will keep you safe?”

               “Maybe not. But this way, at least I’ve made you aware that I understand what you’re capable of and I’ve made you aware of what I’m capable of.” And he smiled at me.

               Why didn’t you leave, Amanda? It’s a good question. Transportation was an issue. It was too far to walk that late, and there was the already stated bus and taxi issue. I did not feel in danger, but I did feel I was in the presence of a major, major asshole.

               After dinner, Filo did his best to get us to go out clubbing with him. His explanation of the choices for the night were the following:

              “1A: we can go out clubbing. 1B—I am a scientist, I have to list things like this—we can go out for a drink, and then go clubbing. 1C—we can have an orgy, ha ha!”

               Finally, I said, “Filo, I’m not going out. I was on the train for 12 hours and I’m tired. You will not convince me.” He was not happy, but Chia Hua and Yun-Han did not want to go out either.

               Filo emerged from the bathroom, chinchilla shit undoubtedly stuck to the bottom of his slippers, and in his boxers, ready for bed. Who the fuck is this guy?

               I slept in my street clothes, in my street clothes, and as far away from him as possible.

               I woke up much the same, and confident that nothing had happened during the night. I slipped out of bed, took my computer to the kitchen, and the wifi worked. Thank God. I found a hostel, found the address, and got ready to make my move.

               When the guys woke—Giuglio had gotten home at some point during the night—we ate breakfast, standing, in the kitchen. I was cool and polite. The boys asked for advice on backpacks for their upcoming trip to Siberia. I told them what I thought as I packed my bag. They didn’t notice.

               I spoke to Giulgio about his PhD and he told me how much he liked San Francisco, except for all the gay people. I put my makeup bag in my pack and cinched the clips tight.

               The girls and I had decided to go out together. “I only have one set of keys, so you’ll all have to come back at the same time, then,” Filo explained. That wasn’t going to be a problem.

               As we got our shoes on, the girls noticed the pack on my back. “Do you always carry all your things with you?”

               “All the time. That way, I always have what I need.”

               A block away from the flat, I told them I wasn’t coming back and I apologized for lying to them about Danny and my bag.

               We spent the next few hours gathering luggage and finding a hotel to split three ways. We had all hated our experience with Filo, and the girls didn’t even know what Filo had hoped would happen.

               So why am I writing about this, and why am I writing poorly about this? I believe in CouchSurfing, for sure. However, as my parents pointed out, I should still value the gift of fear. That is why I am writing.

               I knew as soon as I arrived that something was wrong. Filo’s flat was not a normal, feel-good place. It was a place where he takes advantage of travelers when he can. It’s a place that is full of misrepresentations, and disrespect. It is a place full of fear. I could feel it the moment I walked in.

               It’s this feeling that is a gift from our evolution, from our bodies, from something we know is there but don’t quite understand, that we must heed. It knows—it always knows—when something is off. This fear is what can keep us safe when no person or safe haven can. It is a gift we must not ignore.

               I hope this scares those who are thinking of CouchSurfing. I hope this makes you really think about with whom you’re staying and whom you can trust. I have already made some amazing, amazing friends from CouchSurfing, people I will love for life. But with those fabulous dozen come the sneaky and the dishonest. I like as much as anyone to have faith in humans, but sometimes suspicion and distrust must take precedence. Especially when you’re a woman and when you’re alone.

               So, how did it turn out? The girls and I spent a great night in a surprisingly great room. We fell asleep safe, warm, and without worry. We spent a beautiful day in Copenhagen, and only ran into Giuglio once. How is that possible? It was surprising for sure. I was honest with him—I told him we’d left because Filo creeped me out. His feeble response: “I think I told you that he’d be there…” No, Giuglio, you didn’t. And your roommate is a fucking asshole. We left and continued on our way, happy as anything to be out and about, together, and away.

              

We Would've

I stepped inside and I could feel how much I wanted to be here with my mother, holding her hand and exploring this bookstore. The top half of the cabinets was lined with century-old leaflets, and the bottom half were covered with contemporary titles in Portuguese. The smell of the place was an amalgam of things almost ancient combined with processed paper; it confused the brain. It wasn’t so much the books I cared about, but the sweeping staircase that forked like in a palace and led up to the second floor’s high ceilings and stained glass. It was a place—as much museum as bookstore, maybe more—that I knew my mother would love. I wanted to see my mother’s face as she climbed the stairs, frustrated at their presence, but distracted by the carved wooden walls and sunlight streaming through the arched windows. I wanted to share the moment with her.

This bookstore, Lello, in Porto, Portugal is one of the best in the world. It was designed specifically to be a book store. It was not renovated to turn decorated walls into temporary homes for books, nor had it previously, in another life, housed a family or the maid’s quarters. The neo-gothic and art nouveau space was dedicated to books through and through. My mother and I would be able to understand this.

               We would’ve started on the bottom floor of the cool building. She would’ve seen the spinning shelf of small books for children in the entrance, and then passed them to see the art books (“We are, after all, in Europe,” she would’ve reasoned). She would’ve understood almost nothing of the titles, but she would’ve noticed the century-old wooden shelves beneath them. Like me, she would’ve run her hand along the polished wood, the way she ran her hand along my forehead when I was younger. Her hand would linger here and there until she was satisfied, and then she’d move on.

               Then she would’ve stopped in front of the staircase in the center of the first floor. She would’ve said of the well-worn steps, “That’s what years of people loving bookstores will do to stairs.” And then, she would’ve grasped the heal-of-the-hand shined banister and climbed her way up the right fork.

               I would’ve watched her and admired her. I would see my barely 60-year old mother with bad knees pulling herself up the stairs one at a time. I would see her breathe and I would love the air that went in and out of her lungs. I would see her get to the top and look up, up, up. Her eyes would scan the woodwork of the ceiling, and she’d pause at the stained glass rectangle in the middle. She’d probably think about the stained glass cabinet fronts my dad had made, and maybe, too, the stained glass duck in flight that hangs in our living room window, announcing our family’s ability to create. I would love her for remembering our family in such a foreign place, and I would love her for being able to then forget it, appreciating the ancient in front of her.

               As she stared up, I’d stare at her, thinking of her eyes and all that they’d read. I’d think of Sundays—almost every Sunday I’d experienced at home. They began for my mother earlier than they did for me—she rose around 8 and greeted the paper in the morning light. I’d wake and come downstairs to find her ensconced on the couch, turning pages with purpose, and taking in so much, almost like osmosis. She is a brilliant reader, and she reads everything that interests her (“There’s just so much to read and not enough time,” she’s said time and time again). Many Sundays I curled up next to her on the couch and we read together. I’d wiggle my feet under her, and she’d shift to accommodate the size-eight lumps beneath her. We would share a blanket or two, and we would take in, take in, take in. She finished articles and passed them to me, over tea and coffee, and I would put down the book I was reading at the time, or not, and read the article she’d handed me or return to my book. We would break the paper-silence by reading short passages to one another from what we were reading, and then return to our own. Afternoon would arrive too soon, and our quiet understanding of one another would change with the late-day light.

I loved these mornings. I grew up with a heart full of Sunday mornings. I would think of these beginning-endings of the week and miss them, hoping for another one soon. But we would be in a bookstore in Porto on a weekday, our lived-in living room so far way for the moment.

               This weekday, we would walk single-file in the walkway quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping building. Our feet would barely touch the soft, worn wood beneath us. The plainclothes clerk with the I’m-better-than-this-stupid-job expression would watch us from across the way, bored and leaning against the banister that encased the upstairs.

               She would see a mother and daughter, clearly American, clearly happy to be there together, walking around the old shop, just like everyone else. She would be annoyed that they weren’t seriously shopping for books—not that they would be able to read them anyway. She would see the daughter watch her mother. The daughter would smile behind her mother, probably in a way her mother had never seen before. The clerk would see that the daughter had so much to say to her mother, but that it was ok that she didn’t. The clerk would know that the bookshop’s years held the love she saw in the daughter, and her mother would feel it just the same as the sunshine on her skin. The clerk would never admit it, but she kind of missed her own mother.

               We would see a child’s title whose cover we recognized, and I would pick it up. “Small world,” I’d say and hand the book to my mother. It would be a book that she’d read to me before bedtime, one that never really had a home on the bookshelf because it was always being read. It would be a book that we’d both remember her reading to me, and we would remember my footie pajamas under the covers and her raven-dark hair feathered across her forehead.

               Handing it back to me after taking a long look, my mother would say with the same voice I remembered from when I was young, “No kidding. Do you know what the title is in Portuguese?”

               I’d tell her no, and she wouldn’t be disappointed, instead happy for the memory of me being a child. She’d put the book back neatly, squeeze my arm and say, “You were so cute when you were little! Oh, what a doll you were.”              

               She would probably remember taking me to kindergarten or helping me learn to read or shopping for books for me. She would probably remember the awful and much-too-macabre books I read as a nine-year old about dying, cancer-riddled teenagers. She would remember that they were dark, but that I loved reading them, and so she bought them. To my mother, reading is important, and she mostly didn’t care what I was reading as long as I was simply doing it.

And so, she would or would not remember that I associate her so much with the gift of reading that I have carried with me everywhere. Maybe she’d know how thankful I was that there were always books in the house, even if there was only barely enough money. Maybe she’d know that she and my love for reading were always going to be inseparable. Maybe she’d know.

               We’d finish our tour of the small walking space upstairs and decide to head back down the stairs. As we’d descend, she’d make a crack about us being debutantes at a ball or that we weren’t appropriately dressed for prom. Her comment would be so utterly Mom, and I would love it.

               As she’d walk down in front of me, I’d remember the time in college I was nearly failing an archaeology course I hated. I struggled, and I wasn’t used to struggling. A week after complaining to my mother about my course, a box arrived in my dorm mailbox. In it, there was an archaeology coloring book (for fun), a synopsis of archaeology (to make sense of it all), and a few supplemental readings on the most important eras in the development of man (to keep me interested). I’m sure to her, it was nothing. To me, it was my loving mother, and I could feel my cheeks redden as I opened the package in my dormitory cafeteria—not from embarrassment, but from the swelling in my chest that had to go somewhere. My cheeks were not adept at hiding the love I felt for my mother. 

               We’d reach the bottom step and I’d think of the dozens of my favorite books that my mother had picked out. Birthdays, Christmases, and random Wednesdays were studded with books she’d chosen. I’d also think of the book I hated the most that she picked out, Gone With the Wind. Her only mistake was that I’d been too young when I read it. I always gave her such a hard time about it. I don’t know why. I don’t think I ever told her how much I loved all the other brilliant choices she’d made for me. My heart would ache a little on that last step.

               As each step would bring us closer to exiting the shop, the more I would think about how lucky I was to be my mother’s daughter. I love to read, and that is a gift from her. I love to write, and that is, in part, a gift from her. I grew up with books in my hands, in my backpack, in stacks by my bed, and that was a gift from my mother. Who I am is, in many ways, a gift from my mother.

               We would leave the shop without buying anything. We would turn left out of the shop onto Rua das Carmelitas towards the train station, or the church, or the river. We’d walk, the sunlight replacing the shadows of the bookstore. Maybe we’d talk about lunch or what to do next, but I’d be thinking about the beautiful woman walking next to me, happy to be holding her hand.