It was a little game I’d play with myself as I got ready for bed each night this past week. Sure, you’re sleeping on the floor — but Snoring Guy isn’t two beds over. So you don’t have to hear his duet with Hacking Cough Girl. Or the background music provided by the Turkish Dance Combo in the nightclub downstairs. Or the percussion section provided by every freakin’ person walking by and hitting my feet, which hung off the too-short mattress.

It never made the floor softer, though.

Finally, though, some three weeks after getting to Hamburg, I got to sleep in a real bed again.

I moved out of the hostel (a domicile complete with the loudest snorer I’ve ever heard and the biggest pot dealer I know this side of .. well, any other pot dealers I know) a week ago, claiming a chunk o’ floor space at the flat I was — allegedly — moving into. Turned out the guy who owned the place wasn’t heading out of town as early as he planned, so I was stuck with a roommate for a few days. And then a few more days. And then, since I thought he was leaving yesterday afternoon and he hung around ‘til 10 p.m., a few more hours. It wasn’t that I minded him being around; it was just that he was insane.

The first night I came home, we sat around talking and he laid out his theory that the CIA had hypnotized the terrorists who flew the planes into the WTC … something to do with starting a war to help the sagging economy. I wasn’t really sure how to respond to that.

This was coupled with the fact that he chuckled everytime he said my last name, saying it was a “great name.” Then it turned out he thought my name was “Givens.” When I said my name was actually Gibbons, he became even happier, explaining that gibbons are his favorite type of monkey.

I don’t have a favorite type of monkey. I hadn’t known it was required.

He then spent the next week explaining little quirks of the place, such as when the throw rug is dirty, it can be cleaned by shaking it out the window. And when you’re cooking something at a low temperature, you don’t have to turn the oven temperature knob all the way up. Oh, no, I didn’t say these were useful explanations. His elucidation of how to operate the washer included an exegesis on why the spin cycle was marked by a little cyclon figure, but didn’t feature the step in which he put the outflow hose into the sink. (I discovered that when I went to do laundry last night.

But he’s gone now and I have a bed. It’s amazing how comfortable the dang things feel when you haven’t slept on one in a while.