Crash Course

Andy Netzel: It's 5:58 a.m. I beat the alarm by two minutes. When my brain catches up with my eyes, I remember I'm in a stranger's basement.

The bed is a mattress on the floor, next to a ping-pong table and not too far from a foosball game. It's freezing, and if this were my own bed, I'd be tempted to dawdle under the covers a while.

But I'm in an swank ranch-style home in Brunswick. The owner, Michael Flury, designed it himself before his two tours in Iraq. The TVs have big screens. Fish swim in tanks built into the walls.

Walking upstairs, it's apparent that Michael and his roommate have already gone for the day, leaving me alone in the house and trusting me to lock up. Boxes of raisin bran and oatmeal are on the counter, offered as breakfast.

Hanging on a hook above the kitchen counter are two sets of keys. One of them belongs to the Nissan Z sports car that's parked in the garage. I could easily take it for a quick — and I mean quick — ride around the neighborhood.

I'm in the middle of a week of couch surfing, crashing with folks I've never met who've agreed to let me sleep in their homes, use their showers, eat their food and give them no money in return.

It's an experiment of sorts. Hundreds of Northeast Ohioans are registered as couch surfers. These aren't all crunchy hippy types, as I expected, but people from all walks of life. I think they're crazy. Someone likely will murder all of them as they sleep. But hey, I'm biased and jaded. I decided to subject myself to this because self-misery can be entertaining writing fodder. Unless I die, this is guaranteed to be journalistic gold.