Host Can Also Mean the Thing Off Which the Parasite Feeds

Dear Native People of Hawaii,

Just wanted to say sorry.

I don't just mean for how our country colonized yours. Stole your land. Exploited your natural resources. Decimated your national sovereignty. Subjugated your people. Made that Brady Bunch episode in which your islands seem to be a source of greater tabu than even polyester flares.

All that was bad stuff. But I knew we'd done it. This weekend I learned of an even greater evil we have visited upon you and your beautiful home.

Self-righteous, self-proclaimed hippies.

The ones who refer to a five-week vacation as a spiritual journey.

Sure, just like the souvenir shop is the Stations of the Cross and my spoon collection is Holy Communion.

Back in April, my squeeze the Cheez and I caught a couchsurfing wave in Rotterdam (not usually known for hanging-ten). So when someone contacted me on couchsurfing and asked us to host them, it seemed karmically correct to say yes.

Until I found out he was a clown. Worse than that, he turned out to be one of those guys in his mid fifties who's all about embracing the universe. Particularly, it seems, embracing women somewhat younger than himself, given the Grecian formulaing of his hair.

We invited Bozo and his traveling companion, who had just arrived in Portland the night before (and thank heavens had opted for a week-long sublet somewhere in lieu of a couple nights on our couch), over for brunch. When I asked over the phone if they had any food needs, Bozo said We only eat healthy food.

I meant, do you have any restrictions? Like, do you eat eggs? I said.

We do if they're healthy eggs he answered. Whew, good thing he told me that. We had a whole carton full of salmonella eggs we were going to serve. We'll just put those aside for when people we actually know and care about are coming over.

Within about thirty seconds of their arrival, the Cheez and I had both taken a distinct dislike to Bozo. I distrust tanned people Cheez whispered to me. Not brown people. Not black people. Just tanned people.

Bozo was tan because a year ago he made his life's spiritual quest to move to Hawaii. Now, after a year, it turned out Hawaii wasn't right. Because apparently in Hawaii you actually have to trim the flora and clean up the poop from the fauna. How could a spiritual paradise be so damn full of nature? Oh, and the jobs don't pay as well as he'd like.

Thus, he was checking out Portland.

It was a beautiful day here in Portland. So I made a point of mentioning the rain as often as I could. I believe I mentioned the early February suicide rates. More than once.

But really it was the mid-June homicide rate that was the risk.

We need someplace where we can be artists and activists Bozo proclaimed. Then he took his juggling balls into the backyard while we cooked his meal, served his meal, then cleaned up after his meal.

There have been many occasions when I have wanted to separate a man from his balls, but never more so than with Bozo.

After brunch, we headed out for a bike ride. Cheez and I took our tandem, lending Bozo and his friend our commuter bikes.

I'm sorry we don't have extra helmets, we said.

I don't wear a helmet. God is my insurance. Bozo said. We could only wonder who the actuary was that penciled out that policy.

Your third gear doesn't work Bozo informed Chuck. This apparently is Hippie for I cannot figure out how to work this mechanism. Rather than ask for help, I will declare it defective.

We took them through many lovely neighborhoods. In the spirit of art and activism, they inquired diligently about the real estate prices. Bozo also insisted there was some special deal chocolate he needed, so we took them to the local health food supermarket. After interrogating several staff members, he turned to his traveling companion and snortled Can you believe it? They don't have any raw cacao.

Yeah, but now that you're here, we've got a heap of steaming fresh kaka.

Bozo was subtle. He hinted that he wanted us to give him our bike map by saying it sure would be great to have that bike map.

I told him we'd take him to Powells where he could buy a map. Cheez showed him the map rack. He bought a bike map. He asked Cheez to show him where all the health food stores were. But when Cheez pointed them out, he complained that the streets were hard to find.

Because of course the bike map highlights bike routes. Not big commercial streets.

You know how sometimes when you have spent the day with your young niece and nephew, you are in the habit of having to sometimes remind your interlocutors We say please when we want something or We say thank you when someone gives us something or We look with our eyes, not our hands or You are being a real whiny shit, cut it out.

Well, that's not how it was with Bozo. Because it wasn't sometimes that he forgot those things. It was freakin' constantly.

You are a very patient woman I told Bozo's traveling companion during a private moment at the end of the afternoon. That is non-Hippie for This guy is a rude, selfish jerk, and honey, you can do better.

To which she responded, He's such a great guy. I've been in love with him for two years. But he says I don't have my stuff together enough for us to be a couple.

To which I responded, You are beautiful, warm, caring, and thoughtful, and honey, you can do better. That is an alternative non-Hippie way to say This guy is a rude, selfish jerk, and honey, you can do better.

We hugged. She cried. Then I read her the essay about my crazy family that I'm going to be reading on Live Wire this coming week.

We sent them on their way and made sure to double-lock the door.

And, as much as I feel bad for all the crap we've done to the people of Hawaii, I really hope Bozo stays in their time zone, and keep his rubber nose and oversized clown sandals out of mine.

Couch Potato

Where in the world is Macaronimaniac? Outside the Hotel New York, in Rotterdam.
My squeeze the Cheez took this picture while we were in Rotterdam because I am from New York.

We did not stay in the Hotel New York. Instead we stayed in the least New York place imaginable.
We stayed in the home of a complete stranger.

I was raised New York style. Which is to say, suspicious. My father honestly believes that if you take a cab, you will for sure end up brutally murdered. Because all strangers are just biding their time, waiting to get you.

So maybe it was an act of latent but well-justified rebellion when I logged onto couchsurfing.com to find a place to stay in Rotterdam. Couch surfing sounds kind of 23 year-old dude, I'll admit, but it was recommended to me by my college roommate, who is so not a 23 year-old dude that she is an IT manager for an international bank. (If you think Couch Surfing sounds bad, consider the similar organization called Hospitality Club, which sounds like something Eliot Spitzer might have on speed dial).

I surfed for Rotterdam couches, with the sole criteria of finding a non-smoker over the age of 35.

But I found so much more than that.

I found Rossi in Rotterdam.

Self-employed, works from home, into art. According to her profile, Rossi was just like me! Except for the part about being Dutch and living in Rotterdam. I sent an email, and she agreed to host us.

"You off for your sofa thingy?" Helen, my Brit friend in Amsterdam, asked Saturday morning.

"Couch thingy," I corrected her. Then I told her where she could find Rossi's phone number and address, just in case Cheez and I ended up brutally murdered after all.

We got on the tram to the train station. The tram came to a dead stop 30 seconds later, with a long announcement in Dutch that somehow included the phrase "cable gebroken."

Just as I was worrying about how long we'd be stuck, the tram started up again, taking a diversion from its usual route. Another announcement came, this time in English. It didn't provide any information about the broken cable or the altered route, but it did offer the reassurance, "Don't worry about the potato. The soup is alright."

No mention of brutal murder per se, but still, I took it as a good sign.

In Rotterdam, Rossi picked us up in her car. Aside from driving like a maniac, she showed no intention of harming us. She gave us a tour of the city, then took us to the Witte de With, a contemporary art museum.

I was so nervous. What if we had nothing to talk about? What if I didn't like her? What if I liked her but she didn't like me?

It was kind of like being on a blind date.

Except with a blind date, you don't know whether you'll end up going home together. With a couch surf, you know.

Our first couch was actually right in the museum, in an exhibit called Shared Space in which two artists had decorated a workroom with a pimped out rug and an insanely comfy couch. The perfect place to subject Rossi to my fave photographic phenom, Found Object Tripod.

Step 1. Set camera to self-timer mode.
Step 2. Perch camera precariously on any available object.
Step 3. Hit the shutter trigger.
Step 4. Run into the picture
Step 5. Laugh like hyena (optional).
Repeat as necessary.


According to her couch surfing profile, Rossi shared my addiction to the digital camera. "I left mine in my friend's bag last week when I was in Paris," she told us forlornly, "and she hasn't sent it back yet." If Rossi had told me she had misplaced a kidney, I couldn't have been more sympathetic. "I'll send you copies of all my pictures," I promised.

As we sat on the couch, Rossi translated the museum's description of the room. Visitors and members of staff are invited to relax for a while, chat with one another, or use the equipment together. With this project, we do not merely respond, but also contribute to the thriving design environment in Rotterdam. Shared Space is not an exhibition; the objects in the space are intended for use.

Unfortunately, the objects in the space consisted of a week-old newspaper and an industrial-sized paper shredder.

Nonetheless, we set to work.

Rossi made a paper hat.
Cheez made a giant fortune teller.
I made a flower and stuck it in the planter.

But the piece de resistance was a collaborative effort, involving a carefully synchronized use of both forward and reverse functions on the shredder.

"It's so beautiful, it should hang on the wall," said Rossi.

I agreed, and set up trying to pull some tape off the pimped rug. When that failed, I pulled a piece of gum from my purse, chewed madly, and used it to affix the piece to the wall. Rossi whipped out a pencil and added a curatorial tag.

Eat Your Heart Out, Jeff Koons

We were so pleased with our artistic display, we went out for celebratory drinks, then headed back to Rossi's place, where her boyfriend Peter had prepared a four-course, gourmet dinner for us.

Surf's up, dude. Kowabunga!

As we reviewed the day's events, I told our hosts about the morning tram ride. "Is there some Dutch expression the woman on the tram was trying to translate?" I asked.

Peter thought for a minute, then said, "The soup is never eaten as hot as it is served."

Huh? He explained it meant that although the soup may be too hot right now, if you wait, the soup will cool enough to eat. Or, as an anxious New Yorker can need to learn, just have patience, and everything will be all right.

Still, something seemed off about the translation. "What happened to the potato?" I asked.

"It's in there," Peter answered, pointing to the roasted pumpkin soup with toasted pine nuts and creme fraiche he'd just served us.

Of course it was. Why had I worried?