I sleep well virtually anywhere: in cars, on the floor, on benches, on couches. When I visited my friend Paul in Athens for his senior photography show in the spring of 2002, he gave me his bedroom couch — what could otherwise be described as a faithfully rectangular, plaid mass of cushion. For one lying down, it functioned like an adjustable bed, which couches aren't supposed to do, but for three nights it was the best roughing-it sleep I've ever had.
The couch in Ed's entertainment room is a close second; every night during the three visits made over the past two years, I've closed my eyes, shifted a bit and awakened six to eight hours later. (Then run down the apartment's thirty foot hallway to the bathroom before I burst.) Wonderful.
The morning after Friday's grand adventure was no different. I was up by eight-twenty; Paul had already gone running and within fifteen minutes, the two of us walked a hundred feet down the road to a corner Stewart's store, purchased a coffee each and unholstered our respective cameras, shooting every inch of Ed's front lawn and porch.