June 2012

A Letter from Katie Botkin in Rome:

A Couchsurfing thank you board. Photo by Katie Botkin.

In Rome, I’m staying with someone I’d never met until I got to his house, this fellow called Massimo who really likes motorbikes. It is pouring rain outside the night I get there, and late though I my arrival is, and tired though he is, he make me beef heart with mozzerella for dinner to welcome me.

We’d connected through Couchsurfing, a website and, for some, an entire way of life. It’s like karma, or Christianity, or anarchy, or socialism. I think different people have slightly different motivations for doing it. Some are just looking for a free place to stay. Others are intrigued by what amounts to a mini cultural exchange. Ideally, you don’t just stay at other people’s houses, you host them as well. Not necessarily the same ones. You can say no or yes to any request you feel like, and you make your judgment largely based on the person’s online profile — including feedback other people have left after staying or hosting. You can check out the feedback if you want; I’ve had girls contact me about references I’ve left for other people.

The three nights I stayed with Massimo, I came and went as I pleased, because he’d given me a spare key. Every evening, we talked and then I went to sleep on his couch. The last night, I make a joke about how Couchsurfing is basically like everything your mother told you never to do. Massimo laughs. “Yes,” he agrees “A stranger is on your doorstep and you say to him, come in.”

Not everyone is so polite, of course, and I think it takes a certain mindset to be able to Couchsurf gracefully, not to mention wisely. A certain mindset and a certain hardness of hip, because the place you end up sleeping may not always be at the level of a four-star hotel.

A Letter from Katie Botkin in Rome:

To celebrate Emma and Thomas’ papal blessing, Emma has made reservations at Ciampini Ristorante, their favorite restaurant in Rome. We meet at the top of the Spanish steps and walk over, with the smell of jasmine hanging in the air, and seat ourselves at our table on the terrace overlooking Rome at sunset. Emma tells me that she loves this restaurant because the food is outstanding and the service is excellent. Indeed, our waiter seems to appear exactly when we need him to, and is helpful without being condescending or overly jovial. He brings us some amuse-bouches with caviar. Mary orders a negroni and says it’s made perfectly. I order prosecco, agree to a portion of the seafood platter, risotto with seabass and spaghetti as my next courses, and then want beef with a side dish of Roman artichokes.

After the seafood platter, a spread of prawns, ahi tuna and octopus salad, I realize I’m going to have to start taking it easy. I’m not sure how Italians make through an entire meal like this. I have a few bites of the pastas and sit back to converse for awhile to let my stomach rest. Emma makes me try some of her wine, a valpolicella she’s swooning over due to its aromas of leather and oak.

When the main course comes, I concentrate on enjoying the beef without making myself sick. “Next time we come here, I am definitely only ordering the main course,” says Thomas. I groan and agree. It’s just too good to waste, though. I ask the waiter if they do doggie bags in Italy. “But of course,” he says, and disappears with my plate. He comes back with a nice little package for me to take away, and I excuse myself before anyone can guilt me into trying desert.

A Letter from Katie Botkin in Rome:

After the papal blessing, I spot Mary, who has been standing not far away in the crowd of the faithful and the curious, and we decide to go get something to drink in the shade. There’s a nice-looking place in a nice-looking alley not too far from the Vatican, where the cocktails are nine euros, and Mary orders a negroni.

The waitress, however, brings her a Corona. Mary shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’d love to drink that, but I just don’t drink beer at all. I ordered a negroni.”

The waitress attempts to argue with her, but Mary insists, politely, so the waitress goes off. She comes back, enunciates a sentence I don’t understand, with “responsible,” and “story,” in it, and takes away the untouched Corona. Five minutes later, she comes out with her purse, and walks away, disappearing down the street. Mary stares after her.

“Did I just get her fired?” she asks. “Was I unreasonable?”

“No,” I say, “not at all.”

We wait awhile longer for Mary’s drink, but it never arrives. Mary asks another waitress if it’s coming. The waitress doesn’t know anything about it, but says she can get it. “Never mind,” says Mary, “I don’t want it now.”

So we go and get some gelato instead.