ABSTRACT
My plane touches down in Montreal on a damp afternoon in late spring. When the immigration officer asks the purpose of my visit to Canada, I tell her I am visiting friends. What I do not tell her is that I do not actually know anyone in Montreal – yet. My flight is late, so I ask the taxi driver to hurry to my destination: a street corner where I have arranged to meet Noelle. I arrive a few minutes before the agreed time and wait on a bench, wrapping my coat tightly around me. Soon, a petite and vivacious young woman approaches me. ‘Jennie?’ We recognize each other from the photographs on our CouchSurfing profiles. ‘Noelle?’ We both smile and shake hands and then I follow her around the corner and down the street to her apartment. She welcomes me in and gives me a quick tour of her tiny home. She invites me to prepare meals in her kitchen, indicating where I can find saucepans and plates, and shows me where she has hung towels for me in the small bathroom. She then points at her bed and informs me that is where I will be sleeping; she will sleep in the living room. I object, reminding her that I am the one who should be sleeping on the couch. ‘It's not negotiable!’ she replies, and then takes me out again to collect her bed linens at the laundromat a few blocks away.
