sofasurfers

For a couchsurfer, the words, “Good night” are always accompanied
with, “So what are you up to  tomorrow?” in an attempt to work around
and with your host’s plans. For my final night in Xi’an, there didn’t
seem to be any major plan – Gareth was taking his businesss English
students to KTV, the karaoke bar (well, I suppose singing English
songs is good language practice – but for business English??), but
that would finish early and Beth didn’t have any. So, returning from
the mountain, I dropped a quick text saying I’d be backin town at 7pm.
I didn’t hear from Beth until 8.30, when she called me to say that she
too was going to karaoke. They’d be back at 10.30 (I had keys). “Oh –
would you like to come?” she said (afterthought, I thought to myself).
Nah, I said (I’d got up at 6.30 this morning, plus I really didn’t
have the energy for madness tonight) - I’ll see you at home. But of
course I didn’t because it was another late night for them. “A perfect
guest is one who is part of the furniture,” they’d said at dinner the
night before. This evening’s dinner-for-one got as far as opening some
rice pudding that I’d bought from the local shop, only to find that it
had congealed back in March, its best before date (foods on sale way
past their sell-by date is a frequent occurrence here, I am
realising). I was even without a cuppa, for there is no kettle in the
flat. And so, with the other little pile of abandonment, their
Chihuahua cross called Gumpa (named after Chinese beer), we shivered
on the sofa together. China’s heating is centralised: “The government
says when it’s hot and when it’s cold,” Gareth had explained. Feeling
lonely should be the one thing that the couchsurfer is protected from
when being hosted – but what was I supposed to do? Pull rank over my
hosts and say, “Hey come on, guys, it’s my last night – and no, I’m
not up for karaoke again”? Well, at least I was being the perfect
guest.

Footnote: you may be wondering how the dog managed to go to the loo,
locked up in that third-floor apartment. Was it litter trained, I
wondered? I looked around for a litter tray but there was none. And
the apartment didn’t smell of accident. Then I followed a slim opening
in the French windows leading onto the balcony: a long, skinny balcony
which I soon discovered was decorated with long, skinny dog logs. The
RSPCA wouldn’t approve. Still, at least it’s not on the menu.