First Solo Trip. Foreign Country. Strangers’ Sofas. What Could Go Wrong?

Every time I tell someone I used to go couchsurfing solo as a female traveller, alone, in strangers’ houses, I get one of two reactions.

The first is pure horror. Alone? In a stranger’s house? Are you not aware that true crime podcasts exist?

The second is a slightly wistful “I always wanted to do that, but…”

This post is for the second group.

How It Started

My first Couchsurfing experience happened on my first solo trip abroad, to the UK, back when I was still working as a Clinical Research Associate, running on stress and unused annual leave, and had decided to do something about both at once.

I flew to England, spent a few days with family friends in Worcester to ease myself in, and then opened the Couchsurfing website (no app back in 2009!) and started sending requests. I had a rough idea of which cities I wanted to see – but within each city, where exactly I’d end up depended entirely on where my host lived. City centre, suburbs, somewhere in between. I wasn’t particular. That was kind of the point.

The York Situation

I want to tell you about York, because it is the most perfectly chaotic Couchsurfing experience I have ever had, and also somehow one of the best.

My host was a university student in his final year, hadn’t graduated yet, which I only found out when he came to meet me at the train station. I had specifically tried to book female hosts for this trip, for reasons that should be obvious. York was the one exception, mostly because no one else was available, and he had mentioned he lived with his mum. This felt like sufficient reassurance at the time.

He was waiting for me outside the station: young, quietly spoken, almost painfully polite, the kind of person who makes you feel like you should be the one making conversation to put him at ease. He offered to carry my backpack. His mum, he said, had made breakfast.

She had made a full English breakfast and pancakes. I immediately felt guilty for every slightly suspicious thought I’d had on the train.

That evening, he took me around York – proper tourist mode, very enthusiastic. We ended up at a pub talking for hours after dinner. He told me he wanted to be a pilot someday. I told him about my job and my travel plans. It was exactly the kind of conversation you can only have with a stranger you’ll probably never see again, which is its own special kind of honest.

That night later, his father came by to say hello (dad lived nearby). We got along well, chatted over tea, and before he left, he’d suggested we all go for a countryside picnic the next morning. I said yes without hesitating.

The next morning, the father arrived with sandwiches and a plan. I climbed into the back seat. And then, just as we were about to leave, something happened.

The father produced a paper map.

The son produced a GPS device.

What followed was a full-volume father-son debate about the correct way to navigate that escalated from a discussion into an argument into both of them slamming the car doors and disappearing back into the house while I sat in the back seat, completely alone, listening to them shout through the walls.

I genuinely did not know what to do. I considered texting a friend. I considered getting out of the car. I considered whether this was how Couchsurfing stories ended.

They came back out five minutes later. The father was completely calm, map in hand. The son was visibly deflated, GPS uncharged. We drove through the most beautiful narrow country roads I have ever seen: hedgerows, sheep, the whole thing. We found a spot by a stream, laid out a picnic blanket, and ate sandwiches while cows wandered past in the distance.

Later, I apologised to the son for being the reason they argued. He looked at me — this quiet, polite boy who had barely raised his voice the entire trip – and said, completely matter-of-factly: “That’s just our thing.”

I did not see that coming.

How I Actually Choose Hosts

Here is my actual system, built over years of doing this:

Women first, always. Female hosts, or couples with children. Not because men are automatically dangerous, but because solo female traveller plus unknown man’s apartment is a combination that requires more vetting than I usually have time for.

Read the reviews like your life depends on it. It probably doesn’t, but read them anyway. Recent ones. Multiple ones. Look for patterns.

Tell someone where you’re going. Every time. Name of host, address, dates. I also kept the local emergency number saved – not because I expected to use it, but because having it made me feel less like I was being reckless and more like I was being prepared.

Trust your gut when you’re there. Once you arrive, you’ll know almost immediately if something feels off. If it does – leave. Make up an excuse if you have to. You owe a stranger on the internet nothing.

The Other Side: When I Was the Host

I hosted too, for a while, and the experience was its own education.

Most guests were wonderful – curious, interesting people who arrived with stories and left with more. I had long dinners with people from countries I’d never been to, exchanged travel tips, learned things about places I’d only read about. That part I loved unreservedly.

And then there were the others.

The ones who treated my apartment like a budget hotel — out before I woke up, back after midnight, no conversation, no acknowledgement that another human being lived there. The one who broke the shower head and left without mentioning it. The one who complained that the air mattress in my living room wasn’t comfortable enough.

(For what it’s worth: it was free. The air mattress was free. The roof was free. I am still thinking about this person.)

A Note on Couchsurfing Today

I should mention, the platform I used back then barely resembles what exists now.

Couchsurfing.org went through some significant changes around 2020, and not the good kind. It introduced a paywall, which fundamentally changed the community. The people who were there for genuine cultural exchange largely left. What remained attracted a different crowd including, unfortunately, a wave of people who seemed to be using it primarily as a dating app. My profile, with hundreds of reviews and years of connections, is still sitting there, untouched, like a very specific kind of digital ghost.

The broader landscape shifted too. Once Airbnb made it easy to earn a little money from a spare room, the motivation to host for free quietly evaporated. Combine that with a rough global economy, and genuine hospitality-driven hosting has become increasingly rare.

So if you’re thinking of trying Couchsurfing today, go in with adjusted expectations. The spirit of what it was still exists – just in smaller pockets, and you’ll have to look harder for it.

Was It Worth It?

Yes. Without question.

Not every experience was as memorably chaotic as York. Most were quieter – a spare room, a local recommendation, a conversation over coffee that made a city feel like somewhere I actually belonged for a day. Couchsurfing taught me more about how people actually live than any guidebook ever has.

Would I do it the same way again? Mostly. I’d still pick female hosts when I could. I’d still tell someone where I was going. I’d still trust my gut.

But I would not, under any circumstances, sit between two men arguing about paper maps without having first located the nearest exit.

Some lessons you only need to learn once.