Mind If I Stay with You?

When I was in my twenties, if I heard a friend had a houseguest staying with her, I was jealous. It sounded like an intimate slumber party or an exclusive camping trip. Now that I’m in my thirties, if I hear the same news (especially in New York), the hostess gets my deepest sympathy. “You have friends from Berlin sleeping on your floor who want you to take them to the Statue of Liberty? I’m so, so sorry. You’re in my thoughts.” It’s sad, because those tourists are probably having the time of their lives, and they think you are, too. 

I learned, during my first visit to Manhattan, that if you do two simple things, you can remain in your host’s good graces: (1) get out of the apartment as much as possible, and (2) cook for her. My host friends were earning under 30K each and living on lentils, in a three-story walk-up in the East Village. I was training horses and shoveling stalls in a town with no stoplights in Virginia. So, when I arrived at their tiny apartment, I was ready to party. They broke the news to me that they had zero disposable income, and that we could go out and drink pitchers only one night out of the seven. I had taken a loan out for the trip, so in my own mind, I was flush with cash. I grabbed a few bags of subway tokens and a subway map, and ran around like a nut while they were at work. I cooked them a mediocre dinner every few nights and sorted their mail. I was sleeping in the middle of their tiny 8' x 8' living room, but when I left, they told me I was “the best houseguest ever.” Surely, they were exaggerating.

Normally, as a houseguest, I’m like a terrier sniffing around a hayloft. When I enter a room, I want to read the title of every book on the shelf and look at every photo. I want to see if the artwork has signatures. I check the views from every window. The only reason I don’t flip over the china to check for labels is because I read a story discussing Princess Diana’s rudeness in doing this at the dinner table with a piece of silver the Queen had just given her. If I’m being rude, I swear it isn’t nosiness, it’s just curiosity.