I arrived at la Casa de Jean at about 9:30 last night, an hour and a half late. The door of his 7th-floor apartment opened and he beckoned me in. Long hair, beard and smile, a French face with a Spanish voice.
'Hola!'
'Hola!'
'Que tal?'
'Muy, muy bien. Y tu?'
'Bueno. spanishspanishspanish'
'Perdon, no comprende.'
'Did you find me easily?'
'Yep, all good.'

He shows me round his house; the kitchen and breezy balcony, the outside zones where we must wear slippers; the living room with beautiful, spacious Oriental art hanging on the walls. Everywhere there are painted fans, perfect postcard-sized pencil scenes, a quiver of chopsticks on the draining board.

He tells me that the other person who was going to be staying with him is ill and can't make it, so I can have the guest room. There's a comfy single bed, and a sunset view over the city. On the wall is a world map, bought in China. Mostly Pacific Ocean with China large near the center, America aqueezed in on the right.

He asks me if I smoke, takes details from my passport and shows me his, and we retire to the balcony to drink my 5 euro bottle of Rioja.
Leaning against the wall in the cool twilight, Jean lights a cigarette.

'I have trouble with my neighbour. He was here just before you arrived, shouting because water comes through his wall. My other neighbour built an addition,' indicating a boxy white slab that blocks most of the view to the left, 'but he did it badly and now the drain is blocked. You will see the water damage in your room. I sued him to make him take it down, and I won, but he came to me crying, and he is my neighbour, so I said that it will be ok as long as he repairs it. But...'
'And the other guy blames you?'
'Yes, he blames me. And I try to tell him but what can I do? He is shouting.'
'Dude.'
'Anyway I'm probably only here three years, then maybe I am moving to Asia.'
'Sweet man, where abouts?'
'I am watching some places in Thailand. I am in love with Japan, and I have been seven times to Hong Kong, but I want to go somewhere they do not care about documents.'
'You mean like bills, bureaucracy, red tape...'
'Like passports. Soon they will put inside everybody an RFID chip, it will have all your biometric details, qualifications, your money.'
'So if you're someone they don't like, they just turn off your chip.'
'Of course.'
'I think that's partly why couchsurfing's so important.'
'Yes. It is about people, and love. They can't control it.'
'Because there's no money involved. For the moment the ones at the top seem to have real integrity.'
'We are not a big community now, but if it's still going in twenty years, it could get interesting.'

Later I cooked a disaster, which luckily Jean had already declined. As I munched the blackened, gritty tomatoes and chorizo, I reflected that no matter how low I sink, no matter how tiny the budget or dodgy the backstreet Indian cafe, at least my diet will never be as bad as Carlo's during the first year of university (of course a man can survive on ecstacy and egg fried rice!)