h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

http://www.bbc.co.uk/h2g2/guide/A671988

A TRUE CHRISTMAS STORY

Arriving home to my village in Provence one evening shortly before Christmas after a difficult day, I saw sticking up out of my letterbox an envelope postmarked in Hong Kong. I had been hoping for some news from Ireland but that was all there was. My disappointment gave way to irritation thinking these mail order companies were spreading their tentacles ever wider and becoming more and more personal when packaging their unsolicited messages. I threw the envelope aside and once again resolved to write to American Express and demand that they stop including my name on their hawking list.

Later the combination of a good meal and Cote de Rhone on tap acted like paint stripper on those negative feelings and looking again at the envelope I began wondering what kind of service they could be offering me from Hong Kong. Perhaps a method to learn Chinese in three months, maybe a now or never opportunity to invest in the Hang Seng stock exchange or, wait a moment, it needn't necessarily be a mail shot, it could be from the man on the train. I hastily slit open the envelope and was startled to see myself smiling out from a photograph. That reaction gave way instantly to one of fond remembrance as I saw I was not alone in the picture -beside me was a smiling Chinese face topped by a little white sailor hat. So it was from Him!

A message in Chinese and English "Happy, Holy Christmas from your students all over the world" was signed Cheuk Por King and the photo showed us sitting shoulder to shoulder in a train carriage with the silhouettes of others reflected in the window behind us. As I looked down at his happy face and saw again those inquisitive eyes I could see in my mind the countryside rolling by and feel the sensation in my body as that T.G.V. swooshed along between Avignon and Paris. I had boarded at Avignon and having found my reserved seat was pleased to note that even though there were reserved signs on all the others, I was alone in the carriage. I was feeling a bit tired and tense because I had driven very fast, not having taken into account, when estimating the journey time from Pertuis, the narrowness of the route and the number of lorries using it. I tucked my head into the corner of the seat, stretched out my legs and soon felt the tensions ebb away. I dozed, waking only every now and then as the train changed pace, content that I was missing nothing because only after Lyon would the upgraded tracks allow it to transform into the famous High-Speed-Train and hurtle non-stop to Paris.

The dozing developed into a deep sleep which was finally broken by a peculiar noise in the carriage. I held my eyes shut for a while to try and identify it and soon realised it was the buzz of a foreign language, but not one I could recognise. I opened my lids and quickly closed them again for now I was sure I had to be dreaming. Sitting facing me was an Oriental man, beaming all over his face from underneath a little white sailor hat perched on top of his head. Beside him was a woman of similar origin and behind and around was layer after layer of Oriental people who seemed to have formed themselves into a choir and now were waiting for me to raise the baton.

I glanced out the window and seeing that we were leaving the suburbs of a big city realised that we must have made the stop in Lyon and there, while I was sleeping, the compartment had been transformed into a T.G.V. Chinatown. Suddenly the man opposite pointed his finger at me, made a funny noise, and they all laughed. I looked at him in astonishment and shook my head a little and grimaced to indicate that not only did I not understand what game he was playing but that I had no intention of joining in. Then he pointed again and made the sound several times with all the others, at least twenty, joining in happily and gesturing as if they were trying to communicate something. Seeing my look of total incomprehension the first man went through a pantomime of closing his eyes, bowing his head and repeating the noise. The penny dropped, I had been snoring. I decided to go along with their little game by pointing to myself and loudly snoring several times. They all laughed delightedly, nodding their heads in appreciation and then clapped vigorously.

What a scene I thought and began to think what a dull world it would be if we were all the same.
"Are you Frenchman?" asked my smiling man in English.
"No, I'm not I'm from Ireland."
"Ah, from Iceland, I Chinese from Hong Kong, it is good to meet man from Iceland."
"Not Iceland, Ireland."
"Yes, Iceland. I hear about Iceland, you have many troubles."
From that observation I took it that we were talking about the same country, simply using different pronunciation, but to be sure I took out pen and paper and sketched Europe and America.
"See, there we are...the last outpost of Europe"
"The Iceland of Saints and Scholars."

I was surprised that he knew of this ancient name by which we were known during the Dark Ages but couldn't question him at that point because he put his hand up to the brim of his hat, twirled it and changed the subject.
"What you do in France? You tourist?"
"I work here."
"What you work at?"
I could see all the heads craned forward to hear our conversation and remembered hearing somewhere that the Chinese were a very curious people.
"I teach English."
Short answers I thought, short answers and maybe he'll give up.
"In school?"
"No, to adults, only to adults."
"I speak well English."
"Yes."
"We can talk. The others not understand English. Our son in United States of America, we go there."
The teacher in me wondered whether he was using the present simple of go to communicate that he went there often, that he was scheduled to go there in the future or perhaps making a mistake and really wanted to say that he had been there -but I wasn't about to ask.
"You know United States?"
"I've been there."
"When?"
"On two or three occasions."
He leaned forward twirled his hat twice and said in a whisper,
"I like United States."

I said nothing wondering why on earth he was whispering. On looking around I could see one man who appeared to be standing a little away from the others straining his ears to try and hear. Were these people not free to express whatever opinions they held? I remembered his comment that we could talk and now linked it with his assertion that the others couldn't understand English. I shook my head dismissing my idea as imagination.
"Why you shake your head? You not agree with me?"
"Yes, yes, America represents the free world."

Our conversation went on and despite my natural reticence I felt myself drawn by his manner and harmless childish curiosity. His name was Cheuk Por King and the lady beside him was his wife. The group was from Hong Kong and Paris was to be their last stop on a tour of mainland Europe. He taught me how to write my Christian name in Chinese and I taught him how to say "Good Day" in Gaelic.

By now the others were occupied doing other things so I had less of a feeling of being under the microscope.
"You are first man from Iceland I ever see or talk to."
"I am honoured."
"Iceland is Catholic country, you Catholic?"
"Yes."
"You married?"
I was separated and alone at the time which wouldn't sit too well with being Catholic. Anyway I thought it's of no importance.
"Yes."
It was the truth but, of course, not the whole truth.
"And your wife? She like living in France?"
Here it comes I thought, if I answer this one truthfully I'm going to get the third degree all the way to Paris.
"She loves it."

He twirled the hat again, once.
"How old I am?" he asked beaming from ear to ear.
His voice rose at the end so I knew it was a question and not an observation.
I'd better get this right I thought.
"I'm not very good at guessing peoples ages, I never take any notice of age really."
"But guess, guess."
"Ok, fiftyish."
He twirled his hat several times, smiling delightedly. Then he nudged his wife.
"Say him, say him."
She leaned forward and said in a confiding tone,
"He sixty-one."

He didn't look it but then I'd always heard that Orientals carried their age very well. I knew though that I was expected to feign astonishment so I shook my finger saying,
"No, no, you are making a mistake. Figures are always difficult in English, you have to subtract ten years."
"No, is true, is true, look my passport."
Quick as a conjuror his passport was open on the table and he was tapping his date of birth .
"See, see."
"Yes, I see. Seeing it there in print I must believe it but looking at you makes it difficult."

The white hat got another twirl. I was beginning to detect a pattern in the use he made of his hat. He twirled it once when he was about to change the conversation and twice or three times when something really interested or excited him. I couldn't help wondering if he always wore this little white hat as it seemed to be so much a part of his way of communicating.

The subject duly changed.
"This your first time on T.G.V.?"
"Yes, the very first. I must say I was expecting a greater sensation of speed."
"You stay long time in Paris?"
"Just the weekend...a break from it all."
"And your wife?"
"A break from me." I said laughing.
He turned to his wife and poked her in the ribs.
"You hear that, he generous man, he give his wife a break from him. You like I give you a break?!"
"No, no." she said looking at me as if I was a bad influence.
"See, we married thirty five years and she no want break, I no want break either."

I didn't like the way the conversation was turning as I had no wish to follow up my original lie about my marital status with more lies. I found myself wishing that I had a little hat to twirl to signal a change of subject.
"Talking of a break I think I'll go and stretch my legs."

I went to look for the dining car and was disappointed to find that it was just an ordinary cafeteria that one would see on any train only with the prices more inflated. I bought a coffee and stood by a window watching the countryside as the train swished on. Standing up I could really sense the speed and as we took the curves had to press one foot hard into the floor to keep my balance. It was a bit weird but not unpleasant. Paris was by now a mere thirty minutes away so I went back to my seat, ready again to talk to my friend.
He didn't waste any time, my bottom had barely touched the seat when he gave his usual signal.
"Are you very religious?"
I hadn't been expecting this and felt a little off guard. I was a firm exponent of the ancient rule regarding conversation with strangers, No Religion, No Politics, and so said rather tentatively:
"I have beliefs."
"Everyone catholic in Iceland?"
"Catholic yes, Christian perhaps no."
It was out of me before I could stifle it but fortunately it passed over his head.
"China not Catholic, China not Christian."

I didn't really know much about religion in China. I thought I had heard or read somewhere that Catholicism wasn't flourishing there, being discouraged by persecution, but I wasn't sure if I even had the right country. I was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable not knowing where this was all leading but for the life of me couldn't find a way to change direction.

Cheuk Por King leaned forward and signalled me to do the same so that our cheeks were almost touching and his mouth was a centimetre from my ear. Then he started to sing almost in a whisper.
"The little Lord Jesus lay down His sweet head"...you know it?"
I was completely taken aback. I had no idea why he was doing this nor what was expected of me. I wanted to sit back in my seat but he put his hand on my shoulder, glanced towards the man who set himself apart from the others and repeated,
"You know it?"
"Yes" I whispered in my turn. "It's the hymn 'Away in a manger'.

He twirled his hat delightedly and, after looking around carefully, started to sing the hymn from start to finish in a low childlike voice.
It was strangely, goose-pimpingly touching to hear this sixty one year old Chinese man who had never seen me before and probably never would again, singing a Christian hymn to declare to a me that he was Christian.
"So you are Christian" I said quietly.
"I Catholic."

Now my interest was really roused and I would love to have asked if he felt in any danger because of his convictions. This wasn't possible because his low singing had begun to attract considerable attention from the others who were wondering what was going on.
We reverted to our normal position in our seats and sat without talking for awhile.
He broke our silence.
"It will be soon Christmas."
"Yes."
"You like Christmas?"
"Yes. In our house Christmas was always special, always peaceful, a cross word was never allowed. And in China?"
"Not special in China" he again moved close. "But special in my house, in my family. You know this song?"
He started to sing softly again, this time "Silent night, Holy night."
"Yes, I know it."
"Then sing with me."
"No, no, I'd feel foolish."
"You feel foolish to sing the birth of Jesus?"
"It's not that. You see here in Europe all the stores and supermarkets start playing that song early in November and there's no escaping it until well into the New year. It's like an advertising jingle."
"It's a hymn."
"Maybe, but that's how it is. Nothing is sacred here when it comes to promoting that cosy Christmassy feeling that encourages people to buy."
"They change the words?"
"No need, nobody listens to them."
"You do me favour. You sing with me as present from free Irishman to Chinese man for Christmas."
Put in such a way I couldn't refuse.

He began to sing and self consciously I began to sing with him, very hesitantly, not sure of the words. We were barely singing above a whisper at first but gradually he started to mount his voice and we came to "Christ the Saviour is born" at almost full pitch. His face was aglow with pleasure and I could see that every word meant something to him as much as it had to me when I was a child. I felt ashamed and shallow that growing up and becoming worldly wise led me to believe it to be prudish and old fashioned to protest when this simple but beautiful hymn had been relegated to a supermarket jingle. A short time before I had thought of this man as an inquisitive, if likeable, nuisance and here he was singing in praise of the source of his faith, a faith which was far from being cosy and was held in the face of what I was now convinced was some degree of personal risk. It had been so at one time in Ireland but now we dismissed that as past history, irrelevant to today's world. Cheuk Por King was making it very relevant indeed and I began to feel humbled by his sincerity and his courage.

When we finished singing there was silence in the carriage for a short while and then everybody began to laugh and clap. They encouraged us to sing again but we didn't. We both knew without needing to say it that we had shared something which could only be diminished by trying to repeat it. Instead Cheuk Por King reached up and pulled his holdall from the rack and taking out a camera, passed it to his wife, and asked her to take a photograph of the two of us together.

We arranged ourselves with our backs to the window and leaned across the table so our shoulders were touching.
"I send you from Hong Kong."
Our train pulled into Gare de Lyon in Paris so the time had come to say our goodbyes. I was feeling strangely sad. I had met somebody that I would like to really get to know but knew I never would have that opportunity. I wanted to ask if he and his wife would have a meal with me that evening.
"Where are you staying in Paris?"
"Not know" and pointed to the man who stood apart. "He organise everything."
"I'm staying in the old quarter, near Notre Dame. Do you think we could meet this evening."
He looked at me and I could see sadness in his eyes too.
"Not possible, we group, we organised."

We said goodbye and he walked a short way up the platform with the others. Then he stopped and took a few steps back towards me.
"Possible we organised to see Notre Dame. But we all together. Perhaps you not recognise me...so I wear my little white hat."
And giving it three twirls, he was gone.

This is another lovely story. It is unsettling when you meet faith with such honesty, isn't it? I assume that you did not see him in Notre Dame?

B

Hello Ben, No, I didn't meet him in Notre Dame but I was very touched to receive the photo. It was a proof somehow of his sincerity.

As to Jean-Paul the judge, he told the class a very amusing story when he was asked how he had celebrated his 84th birthday. He said that he didn't so much celebrate its arrival as break open the champagne to toast the end of his 83rd year. He explained that when he was 53 he had taken out a life insurance and the insurers insisted on his having a thorough medical examination. Verdict -perfectly healthy.

"Is your father still alive?" asked the doctor
"No, unfortunately."
"At what age did he die and of what cause?"
"Eighty-three, a problem with his heart."
"Well you can be quite confident that you will live to die at the same age."

Now when he was 53 it seemed a wonderful prospect to have thirty more healthy years ahead of him.

"But when it came to my 83rd and I was recovering from a double bye-pass operation I was fearful. That year was nerve-wracking. It convinced me that doctors should stick to diagnosis and stay away from prognosis."

Ben, I hope this helps to capture the man a little.
Thanks for stopping by my work.
Regards Gaston

Interesting about the prognosis thing. My dad died 6 weeks before his 80th birthday (he was another of the Old and Bold, alot of what you wrote about the judge reminded me of him).

A fortune teller in India had told him he would have had two sons and two daughters and live till he was 80. Or maybe until his 80th year.

Apparently this was one of the things which helped him get through being a prisoner of war of the Japanese - but I cannot help wondering if he would be alive now if the fortune teller had said 90.

Incidentally I was the fourth child - and confounded them all by being a girl. Perhaps the fortune teller was basing his predictions on our names!

All the best

Ben

Salut Gaston,

Tout baigne?

Listen, I gotta tell ya', you ain't to hot with them link whatchermacallums! What's gone wrong? And did you *know* it wasn't going to work and therefore copy/pasted the whole story into the thread or was it just a contingency plan?

I'm sure you won't take this badly - you know I'm only pulling your jambe! Nonetheless, you don't seem to have got it. Maybe it's appropriate. We don't do anything around here the way *other* folks do!

Having said all that I haven't actually *read* it yet, so I'm off to do so now.

I'll be back
Spiff

Hello Spiff,
I've no excuse except to plead ignorance. I thought I was posting it correctly. I think the whole system of instruction for posting to a particular place, AWW or Peer, is confusing for those who are not
particularly bright at that sort of thing. And that sure includes me!
Anybody think of editing something useful for Peer Review like
"Posting for Dummies"? It's an idea - I can assure you that I would be delighted with such a guide.
Hope you like the story.
Best regards,
Gaston

http://www.bbc.co.uk/h2g2/guide/A662384

not quite what you need, but useful if you didn't know it



Spiff

Great story, Gaston. I like this one even better than the one about the barber in Naples. Definitely recommending this for another AGG/GAG column. Would it be okay if we copied this into a new page and touched up the spelling or formatting? You'll be credited as author.

Er, sorry to say that I *still* have not read this.

if Bleau says that it is *better* than the Pablo piece, I can't wait!

Other things to do tonight. Seeya!

Spiff

Spiff, are you calling me Bleau-dzoeb again? I resemble that remark! Unfortunately, my wife doesn't resemble that remark.

[Please explain that to me if it makes any sense to you. I lost myself in there somewhere.]

Anyhow, the True Christmas story is excellent. I just posted it on the "suggestions" thread under the AGG/GAG archives. We should wait a few weeks after running the Neapolitan story, but this piece is too good to pass up.

Hello again Spiff and thanks for the link. Edited by you it is bound to help. I've stored it in my 'favoris' for future study and practise.
Can't guarantee not to give you headaches again but promise to devote some of my holidays to trying to improve my competence in this field.
By the way we're snowbound here in Provence. How about up your way?
Regards,
Gaston

Hello =X Subcom. deidzoeb//peace A633331/please,
Woh, I wouldn't like the job of introducing you around at a cocktail party if I'd imbibed a few beforehand!
Thanks for your comments on my story. I'm glad you like it because every time I think about my friend from Hong Kong I feel good.
As to re-arrranging the format- please feel free to do what you think needs to be done to improve the presentation. I welcome all help. The most important thing is to get feedback to know if I'm getting my message across. I think the stories are good, otherwise I wouldn't write them. What I don't know is if the telling of them, and the way of presenting that telling, does them justice.
Thanks for your enthusiasm.
Gaston

Hi Gaston

Yes, the way you tell them does them justice. I can see the sights and smell the smells. You manage to convey the sense of where you are and who you are with and where that person is and has been. You have a cool narrative voice, recording your reactions, but not getting in the way of those reactions or of the person you are describing. I have only read two of your stories, but both of them have stayed with me since I have read them.

Keep it up!

Ben
(grey and overcast here - about +5 degrees - Bill Bryson described living in England as like liing inside a tupperware container)

Hi all,

Yeah, I listen to France Info every day and I've heard about the snow. Funnily enough, it's glorious summer here in the land of the Alsatians (sounds so much less silly in French! . Glad you liked the link, I was so chuffed to discover that you could pinch anything that took your fancy from any other page on the site! Worth sharing, I thought.

Hi Ben Take two smileys into h2g2? Not me! I just 'wave' and 'smile'!

New , from Spifftronics. Just 'wave', and 'smile'!

Seeya
Spiff

gaston,

Please let me know if this looks okay:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/h2g2/guide/A671988

I made cosmetic changes to the spacing and paragraph breaks, and added some commas and periods. I even resisted the nagging temptation to "correct" spellings of "favour" and "centimetre." No need to change any of the wording, although I would suggest that the first line might flow more smoothly if it didn't start off with several prepositions in a row.

"Arriving home to my village in Provence one evening shortly before Christmas after a difficult day,"

The last two bits seem to conflict with each other a little, "BEFORE Christmas AFTER a difficult day..."

Is there a better way it could be phrased?

Still, that one line certainly won't be the downfall of the whole piece.

Thanks,
Deidzoeb

Hello Deidzoeb,
Thanks for all the trouble you've taken with this story. What you've
done is make it more pleasant to read. As to your thoughts about the first sentence I think you're absolutely right. How about breaking it into two.
"The envelope sticking out of my letterbox was postmarked 'Hong Kong.'
It was shortly before Christmas and I'd been hoping for some news from Ireland etc..."
If you think this is okay go with it. If you want to change it a bit
please feel to do so . It's not necessary to come back to me -your time is precious I'm sure.
Best regards,
Gaston

My time isn't so precious that I should rain on your parade. The piece is so well done, I'm worried that my formatting changes might be only regional differences, like the spelling of "favor"/"favour". Plus the fact that you're an English teacher, and you remember the technical names for the different tenses of a verb, intimidated me a little bit.

But thanks for not minding my intrusion. I'll go change that first sentence.

Later,
Deidzoeb

Come back Gaston, all is forgiven!

What a shame to think that a writer like this came to h2g2, proferred a few gems and then decided it wasn't for them and went Elvis.

And when this happens, what happens to the gems? Well, as it stands they sink down through the quagmire of the wider guide, either here in AWW or to the Flea Pit.

Not *at all* where they belong!

Vive l'underguide!
spiff

Gaston's entries were pivotal in forming my opinion that there needed to be some way of easily finding good non-EG entries.

So many people would enjoy reading his things, and the Post archives are too ephemeral.

My vote - obviously - is that this would make a good UG entry.

Ben
*who also misses gaston*