Sleeping Around Read online

  ‘He says he wants to go,’ José translated. ‘He doesn’t want men pinching his bottom.’

  We headed back to the first club, which had begun to fill up. It did feel a bit like being in a cross between a McDonalds and a butcher’s shop, though. There was sawdust on the dance floor and the furniture was mostly bright-yellow plastic moulded chairs. The blaring music was a mix of salsa and hip-hop with a dash of techno. We each grabbed a super-size-me bottle of beer and José immediately dragged Caroline up onto the dance floor. I sat with I-never-quite-caught-his-name and we just smiled at each other and said cheers a lot.

  By two o’clock I was fading and ready for bed and Caroline decided to walk back with me. ‘It doesn’t really get going till three,’ José said as we got up to leave.

  ‘So, how is the mini-couch?’ I asked Caroline as I arranged my pile of cushions back at the apartment.

  ‘Very, um . . . small,’ Caroline said.

  I nodded in agreement. ‘Maybe José could start DwarfCouchSurfing.com.’

  4

  ‘Requirements and Restrictions: Be nice.’

  Juan Francisco Garrido, 27, Santiago, Chile

  HospitalityClub.org

  Juan learnt English by listening to ELO records. In his teens he wanted to know what the lyrics meant, so he translated every song into Spanish word by word. Juan had failed English at school and now he was completely fluent. Mind you, I don’t think the ELO School of Languages is ever likely to threaten Berlitz. Some ELO songs don’t even make sense in English. In my experience ‘Zing went the strings of my heart, zing, zing, zing’ or ‘Pretty pretty, chilly chilly, silly silly, money money’ don’t come up in conversation all that often.

  Juan picked me up from the spotlessly clean El Llano metro station, where the cleaners outnumbered the ticket sellers three to one. I told him that I would be easy to spot. ‘Just look for the guy with a bright red head,’ I said. Juan was also easy to spot because he looked like a graphic designer. He was wearing groovy clothes and he had groovy facial hair.

  Meeting your couch-surfing host for the first time can be a bit like a blind date as you check each other out and try to gauge whether you’ll get on. But in this case I knew almost immediately that Juan would become a good friend. I was certainly going to be taken very promptly into the family fold. After dropping my bags off at Juan’s house, we were heading straight out to his grandma’s house for a big family barbecue (or an asado, as I was told it’s called in Chile).

  Juan lived with his mum and younger brother in the southwestern suburb of San Miguel, which was only a short drive from the metro station. It was nice to see broad and leafy avenues and large family homes instead of the endless ugly apartment blocks that the train had passed on my way out of the city. Juan’s mum Nancy, who looked young enough to be Juan’s older sister, met me at the door with a big hug. The first thing I noticed when I stepped inside was the couch, which I was happy to see looked long enough to fit an average-sized human. I was happier still when I was led upstairs to my very own room with a double bed that could easily fit three or four average-sized humans.

  On the way back downstairs we picked up Han Solo from his bedroom. Juan’s brother Luis Alfredo was a Star Wars fanatic and his room was a shrine to everything that happened a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. The walls were covered with Star Wars framed prints and posters and a frightening amount of figurines were piled up on shelves, side-tables and on the floor. Luis Alfredo even had a Han Solo haircut.

  ‘Luis learnt his English from Star Wars films,’ Juan said.

  Luis Alfredo didn’t say much, but that was probably because ‘Use the force, Luke’ and ‘The stormtroopers have taken over the Death Star’ are not things you say to someone you’ve just met.

  Juan’s bedroom looked like the headquarters of the Chilean Communist Party. The walls were covered with red and black Russian revolutionary posters. Juan was in the final year of a four-year graphic design degree and he was writing his thesis on Russian revolutionary posters. Juan was also learning Russian through mylanguageexchange. com, a website which pairs you up with a native speaker of the language you want to learn who in turn wants to learn your language. For twelve months Juan had been regularly emailing a girl from Moscow called Katya. After six months of corresponding, Katya decided to visit Juan in Chile for a month. Three weeks into her stay, Juan asked her to marry him. ‘When I finish my degree I am moving to Moscow to live with her,’ Juan said with a beaming smile.

  On the drive to Grandma’s house I commented on how patriotic the Chileans were. The Chilean flag was flying from (or out of) nearly everyone’s house. ‘Last week was Chilean Independence Day and by law everyone has to fly the flag for a week before and after,’ Juan said. ‘The celebrations go on for a week. That’s why we are having the barbecue.’

  Grandma’s house was a grand old place filled with chandeliers, grandfather clocks, marble fireplaces, elaborate antiques and the usual grandma-the-world-over clutter of knick-knacks, framed photos and lace doilies. Within a minute of walking into the backyard, I had a drink in my hand. ‘It’s called Ponche a la Romana con Frutilla,’ Juan said as he downed his drink. ‘It’s champagne, white wine and strawberries.’ Before I’d even had a chance to take a sip, a parade of cheerful relatives lined up for a whirlwind of introductions. At least most of the womenfolk did. The old fellows in their neatly ironed collared shirts were hunched over a small table in the corner playing cards. I’m sure that all the drinking over the years has destroyed the part of my brain that remembers people’s names because, as usual, I didn’t catch a single person’s name. At least they all knew mine—Juan’s uncle introduced me to everyone as Crocodile Dundee.

  Finally, after I’d met twenty-odd relatives (and I mean that in the nicest way), I had a chance to survey my surroundings. Set in the shade underneath a wide trellis entwined with vines, two long tables had been set up for lunch. In the middle of the long backyard, underneath an enormous lemon tree, was one of the biggest barbecues I’d ever seen. Under a thick cloud of smoke three men were tending to what looked like an entire cow cut up into bits. Rising up behind the backyard fence were the Andes. It was amazing to think that we were sweltering on this hot spring day when less than 24 hours earlier I’d been skiing in those very mountains.

  Soon there was a flurry of activity as more guests arrived and more drinks were handed out with more vigorous handshaking and hugs. After I finished the drink with the long name, I was handed a large pisco sour. Just when I was thinking that I’d better eat something soon to help soak up the alcohol, it was time to sit down for lunch. Everyone else on the table immediately began taking part in a rapid-fire conversation where the only words I could understand were ‘si’ and ‘no’.

  ‘What are they talking about?’ I asked Juan (who, other than Luis Alfredo, was the only one who spoke English).

  ‘They are talking about what’s happening on the TV show Lost.’

  Yes, it really is a small sad world sometimes.

  Uncle Diego* put more bottles of red wine on the table than there were people to drink them while Aunty Claudia* produced large plates of little tasty Chilean savoury pastries called empanadas. (*These names are fabricated because of the name-erasing circuit in my damaged brain.)

  Aunty Claudia* asked me (with the help of Juan’s translation) if I liked Santiago and I told her that I did, but that I hadn’t really seen much of it yet. ‘Santiago very nice nice city,’ Aunty Claudia* said proudly.

  When she left Juan said, ‘There’s nothing to see in Santiago. It’s nice but boring.’

  After an entrée of steaming jumbo mussels, I was handed a plate that was then piled high with so much meat it would have made a vegetarian faint. I ended up with a slab of pork ribs, a lamb shank, thick juicy pork sausages, chicken legs and beef legs (I think I got two entire cow’s legs).

  Just when I’d put something that resembled a dent into my mountain of meat, another huge helping of yet more meat
was unceremoniously dumped onto my plate. I was already stuffed and my stomach felt like it was going to burst, but Uncle Carlos* and Uncle Eduardo* were still cooking giant slabs of animal on the barbecue.

  Fuelled by free-flowing champagne, wine and pisco sours, everyone was becoming increasingly boisterous and loud. Juan tried to translate a particularly heated conversation. ‘They are having a philosophical debate about whether nothing exists until humans experience it.’

  Fifteen minutes later I asked Juan whether they had resolved their debate.

  ‘Oh no, now they are talking about what is happening on the TV show 24.’

  ‘Does your family get together often?’ I asked Juan.

  ‘Yes, very often. Family is the most important thing to a Chilean.’

  I was envious of these folk. The last time that my entire immediate family sat down to a meal together was Christmas day, 1991. I think I now know the secret, though: A family that smokes together stays together. Just about everyone at the table was puffing away like mad when they had finished their meaty feast.

  There were a few smoky gasps of horror, however, when I passed around a pack of Australian cigarettes. (I’d just like to add here that I only brought the cigarettes with me all the way from Australia to warn people of the dangers of smoking.) On the front of the box was a large photo graphically demonstrating what happens to you if you smoke. Apparently, after too many ciggies you will look just like the Elephant Man. The photo was of a horribly deformed foot with rotten and missing toes. This is caused when smoking damages your blood vessels and blocks circulation, resulting in gangrene. Or, according to Uncle Miguel*, by working too hard.

  Uncle Miguel* stared at the photo and said (well, Juan said as he interpreted for me): ‘This means that if you try and work and smoke at the same time you will drop something on your foot and smash your toes. So we should do less work.’

  Actually, the graphic warning seemed to inspire everyone to smoke more, because less than an hour later they had all run out of cigarettes. ‘We need seven packs,’ Juan said as he counted hands. I volunteered to walk up the street to buy them because I really needed a break from drinking. I was getting quite tipsy and I didn’t want to tip over that line into tanked and do something embarrassing. Not that I necessarily would, but I once made a total twit of myself on a similar couch-surfing experience.

  On my first-ever trip overseas, I was invited to stay with a girl in Dublin who I’d met briefly at a party in Melbourne. When I rang Louise from London, she told me that it was her 21st birthday party the next night and that I was welcome to come. I bet she regretted that later. After catching an overnight ferry, I arrived, without any sleep, on the afternoon of the party, and headed straight to the pub with her boyfriend and his mates. By the time we got to the very swanky party at nine o’clock (Louise’s parents lived in a large house in Dublin’s most exclusive suburb), I was already pleasantly plastered. I don’t remember the exact details of the next few hours, but I do remember spilling a full glass of beer all over the dog, smooching and groping Louise’s best friend in the middle of the lounge room, then collapsing in a drunken stupor underneath the pool table. I felt so embarrassed the next day that, after much apologising, I packed up and left.

  Back at the barbecue no one had collapsed yet, but many were on their way to getting seriously intoxicated. The wine had run out and they were now drinking a wicked concoction of Drambuie, Johnny Walker, ice and fresh cloves. At least if I did fall over or try to grope Aunty Claudia*, I’d still be in the good books. When I returned with the cigarettes I also had a bouquet of flowers to give to Grandma, who almost hugged me to death and told Juan that I could move in with her.

  ‘You are going to write that Chileans are a bunch of drunks,’ Juan said.

  ‘Yes, but nice drunks,’ I said, smiling drunkenly.

  Six hours after we had sat down for lunch, dessert was brought out. It was dark by the time people started getting up from the table. The children played happily in the garden, the old men went back to their game of cards, the older women cleaned up, and Uncle Diego* and Aunty Claudia* canoodled in the corner like teenagers while their teenage children sat drinking with us.

  We finally got up to leave at 8.30, which was just in time. Any longer and I would have nodded off and fallen face-first into my cake. Juan, who had been holding back on the drinks, drove home and said, ‘I’m sorry Brian, but I have to work on my thesis tonight.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ I said, looking at my watch. It was nine o’clock. ‘I’ve still got lots and lots of notes to write as well.’

  I was asleep at about eight minutes past nine.

  I still wasn’t quite sure of the whole couch-surfing protocol. When I awoke at eight the next morning, the house was quiet. Everyone was still in bed. I knew that because I tiptoed down the hallway and put my ear against everyone’s bedroom door just to make sure. I really didn’t know what to do. Is it considered rude to help yourself to breakfast? I wanted a shower, but did I have to wait till everyone had one before I jumped in? I snuck back into my room and made the bed and packed my bag. Fifteen minutes later I re-packed my bag, then wrote in my notebook that I’d just re-packed my bag, then made the bed again.

  It was a bit after nine o’clock when Juan’s mum would have had second thoughts about strangers couch-surfing in her home ever again. She stepped out of her bedroom to find a man in his underwear standing on his tiptoes with his ear up against her youngest son’s bedroom door.

  Breakfast was a little uncomfortable. Juan’s mum didn’t speak English, so I couldn’t explain that I wasn’t trying to sneak into Luis Alfredo’s bedroom. Breakfast was a veritable feast of warm fresh rolls, giant slabs of ham and cheese, boiled eggs, pickles, jam, tea and orange juice. It was all muy bueno (very good), but all the food also meant that I was at the breakfast table for half-an-hour and the only thing I could say in Spanish to Juan’s mum was ‘muy bueno’. I said that a lot while trying to smile without looking too much like a deviant.

  Juan finally wandered down at 10.30 (he’d been working on his thesis till 3.30). I was in a bit of a rush to leave, as I had to get to the central bus station and catch a bus to Valparaíso, so I asked Juan if he could drive me to the metro station. Juan told me that he was sad to see me go and that I should stay for a couple more days. Although I had spent less than twenty-four hours with Juan and his family they had treated me like one of their own and when Juan gave me a hug it felt like I was saying goodbye to a dear friend. Even Juan’s mum was keen for me to stay after I explained to Juan what happened and he told her that I wasn’t really a dirty old pervert.

  5

  ‘Interesting enough, the historical hull of the city proves for the visitor that it is a cultural patrimony of the humanity by UNESCO.’

  Mariano Carlos Cubillos, 24, Valparaíso, Chile

  CouchSurfing.com

  ‘This is my place,’ Mariano said, pointing across the busy city street to a large grey building. The building was a hardware store. Thoughts crossed my mind of sleeping on a bed of paint tins and eating dinner with a garden trowel before we entered a side doorway and climbed up a flight of steep stairs to a large bohemian pad. I say ‘bohemian pad’ because it was exactly what I imagined a bohemian pad would look like. The large high-ceilinged open lounge area was sparse, with only a scattering of mismatched lounge chairs that looked just made for some serious lounging about. Leaning against the walls were a series of finished and unfinished paintings and a collection of musical instruments, including two acoustic guitars, a mandolin and what I imagine is a mandatory requirement for any bohemian pad: a set of bongos. There was no TV, only an old turntable. The only other piece of furniture was a small coffee table that had a large ashtray on it filled with joint butts. To make the bohemian picture complete, lounging on one of the chairs was a hip-looking dude wearing a cravat and floral pants.

  Even if I really tried I don’t think I could invent a better bunch of bohemians to be sharing a boh
emian pad. There was Nicolas, the puppet maker, and his boyfriend Sebastian, the cinema studies student; Marcella, the surrealist painter; Leonardo, the musician; Frida, the Asian/Swedish/Chilean silversmith; and my host Mariano, the journalist.

  Mariano showed me my bed, which was a bright blue single-seat lounge chair that folded down to became a very short mattress. The chair was totally covered in dog’s hair. The hair belonged to Mariano’s dog Remedios who, by the way, didn’t look too happy about me stealing his bed.

  When I arrived in Valparaíso it was Remedios the beagle that I was told to look out for in the crowded bus station. Attached on a leash to that beagle would be my host Mariano. Mind you, if Mariano had told me to look out for an incredibly tall, handsome-looking beatnik with a goatee, I think I would have found him easily enough without Remedios.

  The bus had arrived bang on the scheduled 1.30 arrival time after a 90-minute journey through verdant hills dotted with orange and purple flowers, vineyards, lakes, orchards and pine forests. The most impressive leg of the journey, however, was saved for last as we dropped spectacularly into Valparaíso. Ringing the bay was an immense natural amphitheatre and the chain of surrounding hills was covered with a chaotic tumble of vibrantly coloured houses that were wedged precariously in every fold of the steep hillside. The city itself looked decidedly rundown, but I liked it.

  Mariano’s flat also looked decidedly rundown—although I think any sort of renovation would have spoilt its charm. Remedios wasn’t exactly charmed with me, however. After having his bed stolen, he was now going to be stuck inside while Mariano took me out to the city’s main market, El Mercado Cardonal, for lunch. ‘Remedios was a present from my ex-girlfriend,’ Mariano said as Remedios gave us that pathetic sad dog look as we left. ‘I’d been very sick for a week and I was feeling miserable, so she gave me a cute puppy as a remedy. So that’s what I named him.’