Couch Surfing
a story
After a long and beautiful train ride from Kongsberg, by way of Oslo, I arrived in Trondheim at 20:00. As the train pulled into the station everyone around me rose and began bundling into their layers of puff and wool. I pulled on my own wool coat, though all of a sudden it didn’t seem to be enough. I pulled on my hat, readied my gloves in my pockets, and pulled the turtle neck of my sweater so it stood around my neck, a little fortress. I wondered just how cold it would feel stepping off the train, I braced myself as the train slowed. It was March, the end of winter some might say, but I was migrating farther and farther north where winter would linger well into May.
I tensed my shoulders up towards my ears as I stepped off the train, the air was cold but after seven hours on a train, breathing the same shared air, the cold was refreshing and smelled so good, my lungs and brain felt reawakened. Anyways, I love the cold and the bitterness of several midwestern winters had heightened my tolerance for frigid conditions. I was enjoying the fresh cold so much that I barely noticed I had joined the crowd of people moving through the station, like a sheep I followed the heard to the exit.
Standing outside the train station I consulted my map before heading off. I was bound for the address of my very first couch surfing experience, inspired by the reiterative encouragement of my traveling counterpart and soul sister, Zoe (who was traveling in New Zealand at the moment), who had used Couch Surfing globally. I finally heeded her advice but to be honest it was the cultural exchange or social experience that motivated me, the huge cost of traveling in Norway was my true motivation. Planning to travel for a year takes financial finesse, frugalness, and sacrifice. Two nights in Trondheim hostel cost over $100, for a bed in a shared dorm room. Sticker shock drove me to the pages of Couch Surfing where I sent out a few last minute inquiries to people who offer to share their living space with complete strangers, generosity I am in awe of.
Just a few hours later I received a message from a woman inviting me to spend two nights on her couch. As someone who finds it challenging to ask of others and take from others, my inquirers had been thoughtful and heartfelt in an attempt to ease the shyness I felt asking to stay at a strangers house, it felt like inviting myself over. The reply I received from this woman was no more than four words, utterly casual and in a classically Nordic way put my American/British excess pleasantries to shame. “Yes, you are welcome.” I emulate her concise reply and relaxed tone with a thank you and my estimated time of arrival.
Ticket stubs from the train journey
In a very funky neighborhood I found apartment building number six. It had a distinct cooperative feeling, from the outside and certainly from the inside. The foyer was colorful, walls different colors, some wallpapered, and some plain white. It was a small space with two apartment doors leading off on either side. Both doors were flanked but winter coats, hats and scarves hanging on hooks. One door was obviously home to a few little ones, with tiny scooters parked out side and little shoes strewed about. The opposite door adorned with stickers. In one corner mailboxes were stacked one on top of the other, and I found the name I was looking for, Lina. I was in the right place, however, there was no apartment number on her mailbox and she had not specified in our short correspondence.
Problem solving is inherent to travel and over the years I have grown to enjoy these moments. They test you, they are not always comfortable but when endured the resolution is very satisfying. Staying calm is key, trusting yourself to figure it out is key, knowing there is always a solution to a problem is key. I especially enjoyed when I couldn’t reply on my phone and the internet to solve the problem for me, I never travel with data and so without wifi I had no way to reach Lina. I would have to solve this problem the old fashioned way, good old human interaction.
I walked up to the third floor and back down again, there were a total of six apartments, but a quick process of elimination narrowed my search. Two apartment doors had names posted on them that did not belong to who I was looking for. Two other doors, the one in the foyer and one on the second floor, showed evidence of children, I didn’t know for sure but I had a feeling this woman had no children. I had narrowed it down to two doors, the two on the third floor. I took a moment, standing in the foyer before climbing the stairs because I knew that to find the couch that would be my home for the night, I would have to knock on one or both of the doors. When was the last time you knocked on a strangers door?
I made a little extra noise on the climb up to the third floor, hoping my foot steps might be overheard by an anticipating host. I had written her that I would likely arrive at this time. As I reached the landing, I paused for a moment to see if perhaps one of the doors would open and synchronicity would save me from the discomfort and vulnerability of knocking on a strangers door at 21:00. But nothing happened, and I knew nothing was going to happen until I set it in motion myself. I could hear and smell someone making dinner behind the door to my left, I knocked.
Footsteps moved towards the front door, crossing an old wooden floor that creaked with every step. The door opened and there stood the most quintessential Norwegian man with wild, wispy, curls of hair that were at one time very blond and now in the process of going white. His face was weathered beautifully, with deep lines carved across his forehead undoubtably from a lifetime in the outdoors, the wind and water, just like a canyon. He wore a thick hand knitted sweater in a traditional pattern, many regions of Norway have their own sweater pattern, and in one hand he held a large wooden mixing spoon.
“Hello” I said, and explained. “Ah”, he said kindly as he listened to my story. I could feel kindness coming from him and immediately felt at ease, I knew that he would be the solution to my problem.“Ah ya Lina, she lives in the tiny house right next to this building. You probably passed by it on your way to the apartment building. Her mailbox is downstairs and she collects her mail here, but she lives in the little wooden house just over there.”
Before entering apartment building number six I had passed by a beautiful little cabin and I said to myself something along the lines of, “Imagine if that is where you were staying. Your first time couch surfing and you end up in the sweetest little cabin…” I thanked the kind man on the third floor of apartment six and headed down stairs, out the front door and towards the tiny house. In a few steps I was at the front door of the tiny house and knocked, the second strange door I had knocked on this night.
Lina’s tiny house was a beautiful surprise. She and her boyfriend had build it in this cooperative, creative type neighborhood that invited people to build alternatives homes on shared, maybe even public lands. Their cabin was accompanied by two others, one on either side, with vegetable gardens in between. I am unclear on the details, but it was a magical stay.
After knocking on the door I was invited inside and warmly welcomed. We all shared stories and a spot of whiskey by the fire until late. Then we bid each other good night, I resisted thanking them for the tenth time, but I was in such awe of this series of events. Instead I just said good night and was soon asleep in a very cozy couch bed of wool blankets, the fire crackling.
In the morning I had the place to myself, they had both gotten up early for class and work. As if I hadn’t had enough good luck so far, it was a glorious day, freezing cold with bright blue skies. I got dressed in all my warmest layers and then headed out for a day of walking aimlessly around town.
