Bad Couchsurfing Experience in Europe

Let’s take a moment to appreciate how absolutely unhinged and unbothered I look at the top of Mount Vesuvius in this photo. This is the ONLY photo I have of myself from my first backpacking trip. Oh how far I’ve come …

For those of you that have never been so down bad that you had nowhere to sleep nor money for a stay let me explain Couch Surfing. It’s essentially a free AirBnb where you stay with the host.

The network is full of altruistic strangers that offer a safe space to wanderers on a budget. I once hosted a 19 year old guy who couldn’t afford a hotel in NYC.

My friend and I once stayed with a bohemian bachelor in New Mexico. He kept a fire kindling in his fireplace all night and gave us extra blankets to stay warm. His bathroom smelled as you would expect, but we forgave him after his exquisite display of hospitality.

All that to say I have had good experiences with the website and recommend it to anyone struggling financially but desperate to travel.

Luckily, I was not robbed, but

This story is different

This is about the time I was backpacking Europe on a TIGHT budget and could not afford $30/night for a shared room in Amsterdam. A quick search on Couch Surfing led me to an apartment in the center of the city. The host accepted my request quickly and we exchanged information.

He even offered to pick me up from the central station, walk me to the apartment, and take me out for a welcome beer. Just as every Dutch person I have ever met, he was remarkably friendly and pink with joy.

Things were going smoothly, until we went back to his place. I was sitting on the couch, scrolling on my phone, when I looked up and saw him standing still in his tighty whities.

“Come to bed,” he said, his pale body silhouetted by the dark hallway.

I tried to say no, thank you. But he insisted his roommates hated when guests slept in the shared living room. He just stood there, nearly naked, pouting.

Pause. Thoughts:

He had great reviews online. No one mentioned anything weird.

He was about my size, soft spoken, and young. I could take him.

I didn’t really have a say. It was his home. Where would I go anyway? It was the middle of the night in a foreign city and I didn’t have phone service nor a map.

I put a pillow between us and called it a night. Thankfully, there was no funny business.

The next day, I left immediately.

No, not with my stuff. Instead of researching an alternate stay, I bought an eighth of shrooms and got blasted by myself in the middle of the city. It was spectacular. I watched boats float down the canals and wept for hours.

I was so high that a couple, probably assuming I was homeless, offered me fries, insisting they didn’t want them to go to waste. It was the only thing I ate.

The smart shop cashier promised me they would wear off in eight hours. But when I returned to the apartment at night, all I could do was lay face down on his couch and stare into the abyss.

I should mention that he adamantly hated psychedelics.

Oops.

Cue the same spiel from the night before, except this time I couldn’t even look him in the eyes. I was in another dimension. He must have known because shortly thereafter he left the room, leaving me to melt away by my lonesome.

The next day, I finally left – never to see him and his stark white belly ever again.