I've slept in the waiting room of Montparnasse station in Paris as well; three hours before my train and nothing else to do but sleep, sleep, sleep.
I've slept in the back of a Greyhound bus full of muddy, whacked-out participants of Woodstock 94 (though I did not participate; I got on the bus at Stockbridge and rode to Springfield.)
I've slept on a cot in my grandparents' basement, surrounded by mildewed file boxes and camping gear; I slept there in my suit and pants for exactly two hours after driving 13 hours straight to get there, and woke up in time for my grandmother's funeral.
I've slept in a 1977 Chevrolet Nova as it sped towards the hospital, my mother in the back seat giving birth to my little brother as the dawn crept over the dashboard and the world turned from blue to yellow.
I've slept in the back of a Suburban in 1987, with two horrendous sunburnt blisters on either shoulder, holding my head at a crooked angle to avoid hitting them and hurting them even further, lifting a bottle of Gatorade up to my lips every now and then when I awoke, and cursing my stupid 12-year-old self for insisting on wearing a long-sleeve jeans jacket at Disney World every day save for the last when we visited the waterpark.
I've slept in a movie theater -- first hunched over two seats, then staggering up a flight of stairs to the balcony landing where I crashed with my pillow and my jacket over my head with the rest of the Jonestown lookalikes while below, a bad science fiction movie played out on the big screen. It was cold and I could hear the chatter from the concession stand but I cared not. And at 6 AM I woke up, went across the street to McDonald's, got an Egg McMuffin, came back into the theater and watched Rodan and, during 20 minutes of mindless carnage where men in rubber suits stomped upon countless models of city buildings and tanks and trains, I realized right then and there that I was watching the coolest thing in the world.