Desperate Houseboy

My predicament was this: I had a new object of my affection (San Francisco) and wanted to stay with this new love as long as I could. However we were having financial issues, and unless we got some money together and worked out our differences we weren't going to be able to continue this accelerated love affair.

If I say the word "house boy", what do you think of? Does it conjure up images of a lecherous old man, a young buff piece of eye candy and domestic tasks which require a lot of picking things up off the floor, preferably in arse-hugging pants, or none at all? Which is why, when I saw the following ad in a small gay media publication:

Couple seeks houseperson to do renovations and some light housework. In return you would get a furnished one-bedroom apartment and a small stipend.


I was slightly relieved to read this at the bottom, in bolder, more obvious letters:
We are NOT looking for a sex exchange

I read the ad, and immediately recognised this as something that I absolutely had to apply for. It meant that I would be able to stay in San Francisco for much longer than I had originally thought. The city was already feeling like home, and at this stage I was sleeping on couches and floors of anyone who would let me. Now I could have my own place, get some cash, and I wouldn't even have to sleep with anybody! Was there a better deal than that?

Composing my email to my potential employers very carefully, I had this objective in mind: sell yourself. I knew I had to convey the fact that the job was right for me, and that I knew that, and that they were stupid if they did not see it. I sent it and hoped that this would be another one of those "land on my feet situations" that I had so often experienced travelling around the world.

A few days and then a week went by.I forgot about the ad. I laughed. I drank margaritas. I rode my bike downhill with no helmet and listened to my ipod (dangerous yet liberating). I had coffee and read the New York Times. I met captivating and fascinating people. I lay in parks in the sun. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, time was measured not by how long it was until something happened, or something ended, or something began, or how much time remained. Instead, it was a period which had had no definitive end nor beginning, it just was that particular moment and I was living in it and loving it.

So when I opened my email one morning, and saw a response from my potential employers asking if I was still interested and did I want to meet up to discuss the job further, I was jolted back into the time approximately two weeks prior, when I had my sights set on a job and some kind of regimented life. Did I really want that again after two weeks of living on what, as someone who worked Monday to Friday, would call "weekend euphoria"?

I didn't, but I did want an apartment, some money to live off, and the chance to continue living in this forward-thinking, anything-goes city. So I replied immediately, saying yes, I was definitely still interested and that they could call me any time.

Now I must advise you here that I was being rather cautious about the whole thing- I'd heard the stories of "the craigslist killer", and I'm aware of the dangers of meeting strangers off the Internet. Which is why my fears were somewhat placated when Mike suggested we meet at Peet's coffeehouse in SoMa, a few blocks from where I was staying.

On first impressions, Mike was a serious-sounding but young-looking man in his early 50s with a soft California accent and crows' feet from working most of his life outdoors. I learnt that I was the only candidate for the job, and because of the nature of the work and the conditions, a lot of homeless kids and transients had applied for the job. Sweet! Here was my chance to show him he didn't NEED to see anyone else- I was the fine piece of ass he was looking for! The picture on the left shows the outfit I wore to the interview, which I think really increased my chances of getting the job,


I sensed Mike was scoping me out, indirectly probing into my life and reasons for being here. I even got the impression that he may have suspected I was a travelling itinerant, with no family, contacts or ties. Couldn't he see that my generation-Y clothes were of the highest quality? What homeless person do you know who wears Nudie jeans and fabulous sunglasses?

The meeting went well, and we parted ways with a future appointment to meet the other half of the couple, Richard, who Mike promised me was "more fun" than he was.

I mulled over the situation. Work approximately 32 hours a week, doing some housework, renovation and light construction and in return I would get a fully furnished one bedroom apartment plus a stipend of $200 a week. This all seemed as if an angel (and I'm talking a costumed, gay pride-style angel here) had delivered this to me on a sequined platter.

I was invited to their house, in an area of San Francisco where all the gay angels congregate on the weekend to parade their sparkles and strut their stuff. For a second opinion, company and mostly protection, I took the discerning and astute Ms Grace Li, long a lover of checking out strangers' homes. The drive over took us into the higher points of San Francisco, and with every ascent the view got better and, as is the trend in the city famous for its hills, the homes more opulent. We pull up in front of a flat facade fairly uniform building. Decorated simply but tastefully, I can already see myself living on this street, where a break in the groomed homes gives way to far-reaching views to the east.

One half of the couple greets us at the door and we go up a few flights of stairs to the top floor.
Ted Bundy's or Mother Teresa's successor? Will they throw me from the wrap-around top floor sun deck, never to be heard of again? Or perhaps they will offer me an opportunity to stay in this liberal melting pot?

Single white female?

Previously, on couch surfing: was it a case of the bunny-boiling couchsurfing host, or was I the receiver of that old-fashioned "southern hospitality" (only in this instance it would be northern Californian)?
Wrong on both counts. My host was neither intimidating, nor frightening. Friendly and familiar, he gave me and the other surfer complete freedom without obligation. He made no attempt to orientate me with the house, which ironically led me to feel all the more comfortable.

My host, let's call him "E", is no stranger to surfing. He told me he had hosted over 1,000 surfers in his three years with couch surfing. So experienced was he, in fact, that he was a CS ambassador for the San Francisco chapter of the network. An ambassador comes recommended by other CSers, must have ten positive references left by their guests, and a number of other criteria. They must also participate in CS community events in their city.

1,000-plus people in three years. I try to do the maths, wishing I hadn't denounced its function at the age of 14. There's roughly 1,000 days in three years. So you have one person per day? I ask. He tells me that he always has more than one. His most recent guests who (and I thanked my lucky stars for this next fact when I heard it) had departed the previous day were a mother, her 15-month old child and husband. His apartment measured about 25 square metres and held one bedroom, one bath and a small kitchen.

Surely allowing people in your home on a daily basis, none of whom you know from Jack, would cause you to be slightly discerning in your choices. "I once had a guy who hadn't taken a shower in 3 and a half weeks. In the time that he walked through the door, introduced himself , sat down, and asked me if he could take a shower, the stench was so unbearable that I had to open all the windows in the house." How much time had lapsed? "About two minutes."

What's the best thing about couchsurfing? Undoubtedly the sense of adventure it gives you. You don't know who this person is. They could turn out to be the most wonderful, giving person you've ever met, or an axe-wielding maniac, but you learn to trust strangers, for better or for worse; perhaps it's being part of a community, albeit a small role you have played, that gives and takes but not on the monetary basis which we are all implicitly accustomed to; or could it be that everyone is on the lookout for the same shared experience of letting a stranger into their home or going into a stranger's home and giving each other the benefit of the doubt that we will all get on and every human is inherently "good"?

I met some wonderful characters during my first and definitely not last surfing trip. Allis, a softly spoken but strong-willed Tex-Mex who had spent the last four months travelling around the US, and had decided she wanted to make another life in San Francisco, in addition to the ones already lived in New York and various cities in Texas. Allis has a soothing but alluring energy in both her choice of words, her soft American accent, her life experience and general conversation, and I immediately gravitated towards her. Now that she is staying in San Francisco, we are going to be "San Francisco resident friends" (to quote her).
Accompanying her were two more "border babies": Lizeth and Monica, and a dog called Bop. Intriguing but not intimidating, the three girls had just stepped off a 30-hour ride from San Antonio, Texas, which included almost being driven off the road and a probably meth-fuelled driver at the wheel. And these were two different people.

I considered it good fortune that I had only had to ride my bike to get here, I definitely wasn't on meth while doing it and that it took one-tenth of the time to get here. With those thoughts, I burrowed into my hygienically questionable sleeping bag on my foam mattress on the hardwood floor for a comforting night with my new friends.

From one couch to another

Having pledged to myself and everyone I knew that I would eat, socialise and sleep locally in order to enrich my understanding of Americana, I turned to www.couchsurfing.org, a not-for-profit organisation, and quasi "booking engine" to launch my adventure into the world of sleeping on stranger's couches.

Originally started in 1999 by a college student from Boston who decided to veer from the norm of staying in hostels, Couchsurfing is the world's biggest "hospitality exchange" network. Membership is free (besides a small donation of about $20USD) and once you join, you are free to "surf" and host to your heart's content. But is it as easy as logging in, running a search, asking people, "Can I crash on your couch, duuude?" and turning up with your Kathmandu backpack in tow? The short answer is "no". The idea is that the more you host and/or surf, the more personal references people leave for you, and ultimately the more trustworthy you become. I was at the bottom of the food chain. I had never officially "couchsurfed", therefore had no references or anyone vouching for my character, reliability, or even my identity (couchsurfing runs an identity check, but in my opinion this could be easily faked). All the hosts had to go on was a page with some (very detailed) personal information and one photo of my face (although how could you not trust this face?) In that way, both hosts and guests are taking a risk, so I suppose there is an equal sense of vulnerability there.

My first and so far only experience began a week ago and ended three days later. After sending a multitude of emails, only two of whom responded, most likely due to the fact this was my first time surfing, and one of whom accepted my couchsurfing request, I left the comfort of what had become my temporary home in San Francisco, the lower regions of the South of Market district, and headed for the higher and haughtier district of Pacific Heights.
Pacific Heights rises sharply up from the Marina district and provides spectacular panoramas of San Francisco Bay. Its streets have that kind of paving that is only found in affluent neighbourhoods the world over: clean, carefully placed and not your average council-issue cement. And they are quintessentially San Franciscan: steep, full of quad-and- buttock killing hills, and side-by-side homes built on its many hills. Among these homes, I would say more than half are soaring, multi-million dollar Victorian and Edwardian mansions. Latino maids and gardeners quietly entered and exited via the front doors of many.
As I rode my bike along the street of what would be my new but again interim home, the architecture became more grand, the streets more sparkling, my hope that I would be staying in one of these mansions more palpable.
My heart sank only a few centimetres when I arrived at the modest but by no means drab apartment block, whose address I checked, and double-checked (just to make sure it wasn't the Edwardian abode towering next to it), before ringing the bell and wondering who or what to expect. I knew it was a man. I knew he was originally French. I had read all of his (mostly glowing) reviews from former couchsurfers, among which adjectives such as "positive" "joyful" "considerate" "open-minded" and "informative" were used to describe him. Great, but how about "watches you while you sleep", or "keeper of lime and a shovel"? How would I know that? I decided the risk was worth it (or I had no choice in the matter). I climbed the stairs (what! no lift!) and hedged my bets that my inaugural couchsurfing host wouldn't turn out to be the travellers' "single white female".

Couchsurfing California

As someone whose quest is to avoid hostels, shun guidebooks and refuse to fall into the tourist traps, I have to say I'm doing pretty well.
Let's look at a brief history of my couchsurfing quest so far:
LA: Stayed at Roxy's grandmother's place in Burbank. Verdict: successful, save for the night I "sleptwalk" (read: drank too much, woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, and lay down on the first soft surface I could find, which just happened to be next to a sleeping Alma. Did I mention I was wearing only boxer shorts and that Alma is 85?). Luckily, Alma's humour hasn't diminished with her age, and she saw the funny side of it, as did the entire Bauer family.

Pismo Beach: Set up camp at Roxy's family's house, high up on the hill overlooking Pismo Beach, about 250km north of Los Angeles. Vinyl couches, wooden walls and green carpet, all perfectly preserved, made this home a wonderful example of 1960s American decor. Verdict: Successful, save for the night we met a "Shaman", went back to his hotel room after the bar closed and stole his hat and shirt.

San Francisco (attempt 1): Our local contact was a girl after my own heart. She too suffered from the affliction of having a first and a last name that just roll off the tongue, thereby having everyone call her by her first and last names. Grace Li, or "graceli" lives in the Soma district of San Francisco. A mixture of hipsters and heroin addicts, Soma is industrial but one of SF's "up and coming" neighbourhoods.
A lack of repsonsible thinking and drinking led to Roxy and I having to sleep in the hotel room of two pizza and beer loving Italians, Carlo and Francesco. A lack of space led to us sleeping in a bay window and waking up with cotton mouth.
Verdict: successful, bar the bay window experience.

San Francisco: (attempt two)
graceli's hospitality has been extended, and my address is now a mattress on the floor in a loungeroom of a Soma apartment block. Until the next couch.