I wanted fish. Staple diet of the times… canned tuna on rice. Cheap, yet effective. Of the basic knowledge I do have of the human body's nutritional requirements, I know that everything my energy sapping body requires is well catered for in this little combo. A handy tip for the would-be traveller. Tuna and rice; you can't go wrong.

So upon entering the supermarché, the nerve centre of Lille, the epicentre of suburban existence I knew exactly what I wanted. I just didn't know where in the store to get it. Canned tuna. That's all I wanted. Surely at first thought, the concept of finding one little item of foodstuff in a store this large seemed as impossible as finding one little street in all of Paris. However, I have a special and secret technique for dealing with such situations. I ask someone for directions. However ludicrous the concept sounds, it seems to work most of the time. Of course the next handy little tip I can pass on to my brethren is that this information gathering technique works best amongst those of like- speaking tongue. I was after all in France. But you gotta try these things.

Fish I thought. Step one, scope the place out and home in on the fishiest area I could find. In this instance I found myself in the dead centre of the store at the fresh fish department. There's a likely starting point. I had to be close! I knew it was time to try my hand at communicating with a local; in this case the employee behind the fish counter dressed in white. I suppose when you think about it, if the guy you bought your fresh fish from was uniformed in dirty overalls you'd shop elsewhere.

Slowly, and at pains to enunciate each syllable, I began my spiel. The key is to invoke the "KISS" methodology. You know… "Keep it Simple Stupid." I've personally seen this rule ignored on many an occasion, with the expected result. In fact one of the most heinous offenders I've encountered has been none other than my "Old Man." What a shocker! There the two of us were, on the streets of Beijing. Sightseeing by bicycle around the chaotic streets of sprawling Beijing; fascinating but confusing. So we're lost, in the middle of it all, on bicycles. Time for a little local help I say. We pulled up to this guy and communication is initiated. Having had a little insight into just this type of situation previously, earlier I had taken the initiative to provide my father with a little tutorledge in the basics of communicating under near impossible circumstances. I'd stressed the KISS principle to him on many an occasion. Suffice to say, all this well-meant instruction was left back at the hotel room beside the plastic vacumme wrapped, complimentary slippers upon leaving for the day's excursion.

So here's a wee sample of how the conversation, albeit one-sided, progressed…

Dad: Neehow!

Chinese Bloke: Neehow!

Dad: Do you speak English? (oh please…) We're trying to find Xianghou street and we seem to be a bit lost. Our map shows that it should be somewhere over in that direction but now we're a bit confused... Oh and by the way, how's it all going? Isn't it hot. Now see the map here, if you just show us where we are…etc

Chinese Bloke: (Need I continue?)

So there I am, straddling my cross-bar, shaking my head in disbelief; absolute disbelief. But not being one to grin and bear such things I just had to express an opinion on the proceedings.

Me: (interrupting my Father's monologue) "You're kidding me. You have got to be kidding me. This guy doesn't speak a word of English. In fact he's probably never even seen one of our species before today. So just what do you think you're doing. Single words and hand gestures. Draw pictures or something, but get real for crying out loud. I don't believe it…!

Dad: Yeah…(typical embarrassed half laugh) yeah, yeah… alright! (he thinks I'm being my usual smart arse self though I just know he agrees with my logic)

So he tries again…

"You understand English? (nodding and smiling profusely) We're a bit lost. Do you think you can tell us how to get to Xianghou street. If you look at our map… we think we're about here but can't see any identifiable buildings. In fact, the pluralities of personality inherent among homosapiens of Asian ethnic lineage dwelling in neo-cosmopolitan environments under totalitarian regime…

Me: Complete and utter disbelief. Dumbfounded even!

At this point it would be appropriate for me to make note of the fact that we were "on our own"! Let's ride!

Incidentally, this was not an isolated incident. Trust me.

Standing before the counter full of fresh, whole fillets of fish I begin. "Do…you.. have.. tuna?"

"Blah.. blah.. blah.. blah.. Monsieur"

Ok, time to reduce this down a level. "Tuna.. in can.. tuna?" I get the same completely indecipherable garble of French verse. (He didn't appear to be implementing the KISS technique in reply) The exchanges went bouncing back and forth over the fresh fish counter for several mind-numbing minutes. Finally, when all was appearing to look lost and I could start to feel the exposed skin on my limbs peeling and disintegrating under the neon lighting, a voice, a voice unknown, wafted up beside me, there before the fresh fish counter.

I turned my head in the direction of the voice. It was close and to my left. Upon seeing the source of the voice my suspicions were confirmed. The voice was that of a girl. Despite the moment having occurred a couple of years ago now, I can still remember the general content of the girl's brief dialogue. Although I don't remember my exact emotions of the minute, the words coming from the girl sounded not unrecognisable and a wave of relief swept over me. Despite a few seconds time delay in neural processes, I quickly realised the girl's words were in English. Now let me see… it went something like.. ah yes, I remember… "Can I help?" All seemingly innocuous enough but what an impact those words had on the occasion.

Just like that, from nothing to something.

Something I failed to mention up till now is that I had a train to catch. I was in a hurry. Despite sounding a bit theatrical it's the truth. I had a ticket in my pocket which was going to get me to the small historic township of Arras that same afternoon. The point being that I was pressed for time. It's the modern way. You've always got to be running late for something or your nerves malfunction from disbelief and confusion. If the modern person was not perpetually late for something they'd likely suffer unhealthy levels of stress. This is a common cause of heart disease you know. Gotta keep those panic levels up or stress sets in.

So I was running a little behind schedule and had a train to catch. The relevance here is that I wasn't about to accept verbal instructions with perhaps a pointing finger waved in my face to accomplish my tuna mission. I needed something far more specific and effective. My reply to the woman with the voice came assertively and passionately.

"Take me to your tuna!"

The girl with the voice saw the urgency in my eyes. She read the situation, assessed the moment, and, just knew. She turned. And like a bee to honey; a salmon swimming to spawn; a home-bound Apollo 13; a miser with a winning lottery ticket; she began to walk. A walk with purpose to an unmistakable destination.

The girl led me directly to aisle 4, teeming with soy sauce, chicken tikka sachets and naturally, canned tuna. Mission accomplished. Seconds were ticking but I countered 12 of them to be spare and surplus to requirements. Just enough to spoil myself a little. I turned to the girl with the voice in the tuna aisle. I gave her my name and asked for hers. She gave it to me as Chrystelle. Sometimes, completely inexplicable events occur. They occur as though directed by another entity. And upon reflection of the moments that followed in "the tuna tale" I have no satisfactory explanation for why what happened, happened. It was almost like a type of auto-pilot kicking in. There was no time for a game plan and not even time for sordid "guy-type" thought (sexual stuff you know). So how else can I possibly explain the events that occurred. The girl and I exchanged names and in the remainder of the same breath I suggested my returning to Lille the following night and getting together over a pizza. See, the idea of "grabbing a pizza" is ideal. The concept in itself is devoid of intimacy or seriousness. You think pizza, you think casual! There's no room for pretentiousness. If fact you think pizza, you think, safe! And better still, the concept of pizza reeks of youthful, carefree abandon. It's hip and trendy. Admittedly, when I think pizza I additionally tend to think of at least one more characteristic of importance. Affordable! Hey, I'm not being cheap. Just realistic. (and don't forget trendy)

Chrystelle appeared to have also slipped unbenownly into auto-pilot mode for the moment, as she responded to my suggestion with a (now known to be characteristic), "yeah, why not." There wasn't even a flinch at the suggestion of pizza. This was good. Yeah, this was really good. (As to have been established later as particularly uncharacteristic) Chrystelle produced a business card. This she flipped over and, with and equally mysteriously produced pen scribbled her home phone number on the back. Her actions were so smooth and polished one could almost have thought them rehearsed in a way. This aint the case but hell, it was just that sought of a moment. Like a knife through soft butter.

And with that a date was arranged. Like an alley cat in the night I surreptitiously sleuthed my way out of the building and on to La Gare. I literally ran onto my departing train with a quarter of a second to spare, if that.

These things happen. And frankly, had the encounter between myself and Chrystelle come about under any other circumstances the outcome would likely have been much different. After all, just to re-iterate her thoughts of our initial liaison, which I have been party to on not to infrequent an occasion over the past couple of years of our ever-blossoming relationship.. Chrystelle didn't find me attractive in the slightest at our first encounter. To paraphrase further comments along similar verse. Had she seen me standing at the end of the bar in any type of drinking venue on a fun night out, she'd have experienced nil interest in any sought of liaison beyond, "excusé-moi, ou est les toilets?" How's that for propping up one's ever-fledgling ego. But I know better. I've put it all down to that neon lighting. It's a shocker for flattering one's appearance. And hey, I can relax in the knowledge that she's since come to her senses and finally realised that my rugged good looks just have to be caught in the right light. No really!

Copyright © Anthony Gibbons 2000.