In case you’re late to the party, couch surfing is a sweeping phenomenon that allows people to add their homes to an online registry of “safe, friendly places to stay” that is open to any traveler passing through the area. These locations are rated by the online community to give potential surfers some information about what to expect from a given host, and surfers are likewise graded by their hosts to gauge things like hospitality and penchant for property destruction.
In short, couch surfing is an expansive network of free places to sleep maintained and frequented by extroverts who love to meet an endless cycle of new people.
My roomies introduced me to this concept through the following conversation:
John: “By the way, we put our house up on the couch surfing list.”
Aaron: “We did what now?”
Gannon: “Couch surfing. We thought it would be fun to host various strangers from around the country.”
John: “They’ll find us on the internet. What could possibly go wrong?”
Aaron: “…we did what now?”
About a week later, we got an application from a guy passing through who needed a place for one night. His profile depicted a 19-year-old self-professed hobo who was apparently stowing away on various trains in an attempt to go cross-country. This proved too rich of an opportunity to pass up, so we accepted the request and prepared for the arrival of our very first surfer.
I had already made plans for that evening with my girlfriend (who was not particularly enthusiastic about couch surfing as a concept anyway), and sadly wasn’t able to spend much time at home on the Day of the Hobo, as it came to be called, but by all accounts it was an enjoyable experience for my roomies. Our guest shared our food, took a shower, played his battered guitar with John – who is skilled with the instrument – and shared stories of his travels for the better part of the night before finally falling asleep.
When I returned home the next morning, I found John and Gannon asleep on the couches downstairs with nary a hobo in sight. I later learned they had given him an early ride to the nearby station so he could secure a space on the next train heading west – it was somewhat surreal, they said, but we all hoped he found whatever he was seeking on the rails.
We did run into a touch of trouble in rating his profile later. Overall, my roomies agreed he was a polite and well-mannered guest, especially for a man essentially smuggling himself from state to state, but John couldn’t overlook his one serious flaw. “For a hobo,” he said serenely, shaking his head slowly as he spoke, “he didn’t play guitar as well as he should.”
Mistopia: Post-Collegiate America 
I’m pretty sure rule #1 of being a hobo is playing the harmonica. So I’m hardly impressed if he can or can’t play the guitar. I want to see some harmonizing.
Also, apparently my town is sort of a crossroads for train-hoppers and hobos and I used to date a guy who shared the other half of his duplex with an aging hippie who had a constant stream of hobos/hoppers coming by. Which meant that having beers on the front porch on any given night was an opportunity to meet some very strange vagabonds.
If he had whipped out a harmonica I think it would have made my life! I’ll have to mention that to the next hobo we encounter. And I’ve always been impressed by how much insight you can gain from beers with random vagabonds – if nothing else, you get a fun story out the deal!
Dude! I told you about Couchsurfing back in 2006! Do you listen to nothing I say?
As a general rule, I’ve learned that listening to things that you say tends to have dire consequences…
Hobo got his guitar from a missionary in Kansas City after he converted to Christianity.
The hobo in question learned the secrets of train-hopping from a group of anarchists in Seattle.