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".