Stories: Christmas
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81st Column
If this was a contest I think you've just won.
Nice piece.
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He didn't actually notice; just stood there, stunned, wondering why his wife was yelping & smacking him on the forehead.
LOL. Literally.
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Worst Christmas: 1996-
one of my nephews had a nearly-fatal no-fault motorcycle accident (in come for 10 days, spine broken in 2 places, ruptured spleen etc.) early in the year;
one of my brothers was in dialysis for half the year until one of our sisters donated him a kidney (double operations are umm not a treat for waiting rellies...)
My beloved uncle Bill died after a long experience of emphysema.
My loved nextdoor neighbour died suddenly & unexpectedly when aforesaid sister was having R&R at my home.
I received some very bad other news annnd
the son of a friend was diagnosed with terminal cancer (he died in early January.)
Decided not to join family (as I normally do): decided that Christmas was a bloody awful idea, and crouching inside under the desk, a really good one.
The neighbours were shellshocked so I expected undisturbed glowering.
About noon there were these odd odd noises- the neighbours, setting up sunumbrellas on my sundeck! And a table! And chairs!
And really strange glasses of... cool-looking stuff.
They resolutely kept their backs to my front ranchsliders until I could resist no longer, and opened the door & asked them what the hell they were doing?
No reply, just a hand offering a long glass of some kind of sorbet. Pinkish; smelled interestingly indecipherably different -
so I tried it. And another. And anotherrrrr-
it was only much later yjay I realised that I hadnt picked either ingredient - icy mushed strawberries & tequila.
I'm allergic to strawberries, a slow-developing allergy but - definite...
Best Christmas: well, we concentrate on New Years actuallly- -
Two Xmas stories, connected as it turns out.
First:
My girlfriend of the time departs for northern hemisphere postgrad: teary farewells at the airport promise to meet up in northern Italy for Xmas, at some wee hamlet near Turin where she has connections. Flight (oh, these were the days) goes Auckland, Perth, Bombay, Dusseldorf, London, change planes, Milan. 36 hours, something at Heathrow, then a couple more to Milan. Nice.
Milan, because Turin, intended destination, closed. Learn first non-guidebook Italian: "__la nebbia__", "fog". Crazed busdriver then races across fog-bound autostrada at 2am to deliver waylaid passengers at Turin. Girlfriend, with ancient friends of her family (aforesaid 'connections'), picks me up and takes me to little medieval village, where we park outside the town walls (because the access, built for horses and donkeys, is too narrow to allow a car in, and walk through snow filled, cobbled lanes to a large gate, which opens to a private square, around which is built a medieval three sided multi-family home, with stables on the ground floor, one of which has been renovated just for us into a little apartment.
I'm charmed beyond comprehension, and say so. I get no comprehension in return. I'm advised, now, by said girlfriend that they don't speak English. Neither does anyone in the village: maybe a word or two. Girlfriend, conveniently, speaks fluent Italian. This is going to be an interesting time. (Ask me about my New Year.)
I make heartfelt gestures of gratitude, and head for bed and girlfriend.
Couple of days later, it's Xmas. Had a few sorties out on the town. Locals all insanely gorgeous, male and female, and doing their best to communicate, but really: "__Non parlo Inglese__". Brilliant midnight Mass in medieval cathedral, one of three serving this community of a couple of hundred people.
We're off to a local vineyard for Xmas dinner. Family affair: 40 or so people. Long lunch promised. Girlfriend warns of multiple courses: "__No matter how good anything seems to be, there's always something better coming: don't ask for seconds__". This is not just a warning; it's a clear direction, and comes with a sense also of social mores.
Meal works like well-oiled machine. Food is just indescribably wonderful: each course perfectly judged in timing, size, taste, and accompaniment of local wines. All prepared by vinter's wife and daughters, in small kitchen off the dining room. Host seats me by his eldest son who has a smattering of English. It's not conversation, but a welcome diversion from making eyes at girlfriend inexplicably sat across the room. The babble of chatter builds, and I bask in the warmth and friendliness of it all, despite not understanding a thing. This is what Xmas is about!
Course six, or thereabouts, seems unlikely to be topped: some mixture of handmade pasta, cream, alcohol and pink caviar that I can taste even now. Utterly exceptional: want both to gobble it down because of its sheer moreishness, while dragging out each morsel to make this feeling last forever. Eventually, regretfully, reluctantly finish portion.
Hold last piece in my mouth, and hope not to swallow, ever. But must, because am being spoken to by eldest son: "__Pasta good?__". Had I words to describe it, he would not have known them. "__Yes__", I say "__Pasta bueno__". "__Have more?__" I pause, conflicted between propriety and the prospect, nay certainty, that I will die without tasting such glory again. "__Io have more__", says eldest son, "__you also__?".
Girlfriend's obviously misjudged the social niceties: if the son can, so must I. "__Grazie__" I say; "__Prego__" says he, and gets up to speak with his mother across the room, who's chatting away with my girlfriend and some bloke beside her. "__Mama, gabble, gabble__", gesture, gesture (in my direction), "__gabble, gabble__".
All conversation in the room stops. Hostile eyes turn towards me, none more than girlfriend's, which are a mix of "__what did I tell you?__", and "__You cretinous, ill-mannered boor__". Host's wife looks away, waves down daughters' plain outrage, and takes them off to kitchen. Son returns to my side, makes obvious and awkward attempt to restart conversation with me, but everyone else turns away.
But the meal does not restart: a long time passes, while everybody else talks, clearly about me, and exclusionarily at that. I am no longer basking in anything except self-pity. I try to approach girlfriend, to understand what has happened -- the son wanted it; what have I done? -- but am physically and psychologically rebuffed. Man talking to her interposes himself in our line of sight.
Eventually, two plates of handmade pasta, cream, alcohol and pink caviar -- matched with the perfect wine -- emerge from the kitchen and are served (with perhaps less good grace than I had come to expect) to the son and me. I eat, pretty quickly this time, because of the eyes burning into my forehead as I bend over the plate. The completely divine smell is there but, funny thing, the food no longer tastes sublime, but rather tastes of ashes.
We finish, our plates are whisked away, and 40 more plates are rushed out from the kitchen of the next course, but now bearing signs of congealment and reheating. The meal loses its momentum, and each subsequent course lacks something in the presentation, and delivery. It is obvious to all that the meal's earlier celebratory ambience cannot be recaptured, and the cause of that appears to be me.
Eventually it is over, and we leave: girlfriend is incandescently furious. The drive back in the car is actively hostile. Finally I get out of her what happened: the son said "__Mama, the New Zealand man__" gesture in my direction "__ wants more. You should give me some too, so he does not eat alone.__' And then the wife and daughters return to the kitchen to remake from scratch the entire dish, including making from flour and water, rolling out, forming, and cooking the pasta. Just for me.
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Two out of many...
As a teenager, the year I did the Christmas reading in our local church, as part of the Bible Class. It was kind of un-nerving. It was not standing up and speaking in front of a whole lot of people. Yeah, I was a bit nervous about that, but not excessively. I’d overcome my stammer by this point, and besides, I was related to most of the audience, some of them more than once. And of course there was a script. From Matthew, from what I recall. No, the bad bit was…well, I agreed to do the reading when the minsiter phoned and asked – the minsiter was a great guy, btw, a very open and practical man, so I’m not blaming him. But when I went and looked the bit he wanted me to read, it was about how Mary, despite being unmarried, got told she was going to have a kid. Now, I was 15 or 16, and a fairly self-conscious 15 or 16 at that. And it seemed every second word in this passage was VIRGIN. I got through the reading OK, I think, but rather rushed it.
….
Christmases 1986 and 1987 - my postie years, working out of the old Auckland Central Post Office and studying part time at Uni. Used to tear around the walk to make lectures in time. This meant half walking, half running about 12kms with a load on my back, six days a week. I’d just love to be that fit again.Christmas was more leisurely (no lectures to worry about)…we had to finish the walk and go back into the Post Office between 2.30-4.30pm to do extra sorting. The overtime was absolutely brilliant. Some of the afternoon sorting was pretty random, because we’d all meet in a pub in Commerce St after we finished our walks, have a pub lunch and a few jugs.
Some people were great. A woman on Richmond Road always used to leave a beer, some Christmas cake and a chocolate bar in her mailbox for the postie at Christmas.
One Saturday I had, in my parcels, some kids book or toy which played ‘Jingle Bells’. Batteries had definitely been included, unfortunately. The destination was at the bottom of Hamilton Rd in Herne Bay, and every time I moved, it seemed, this parcel would start playing.Which meant the dogs heard me coming a long way off. Saturdays were always worst for dogs because people would be home to let them run around. Bastard Dog Owners.
Also that first year one of the posties got her holiday pay ripped off. She’d left her bankbook - remember bankbooks? – under the seat in her car. Car got nicked and not only did they get the car they went straight to her bank and got all her holiday pay out. Overtime and all.
She was devastated; we had a whip round for her and people chucked in heaps of cash.
Week after Christmas she’s doing her deliveries in Pompalier Tce and sees her car parked alongside one of the houses….nips into the nearest phone booth and calls the cops. Got the car back, I think she even got her money back. Or maybe the bank coughed because they should never have handed over the cash from a woman’s bankbook to a couple of blokes. Anyway, just remember the fluke that the thieves were on her walk. Good one, Santa.
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</grinch alert>
Since I couldn't think of where else to post this, let me vent here:
Arrived in Sydney on 24/12/07 for Xmas with Aussie rellies. Vodafone did not work. Ditto for wife. Stopped in at Vodafone shop on 27/12/07 to ask why. Sheepish assistant apologised, explained Global Roaming went down worldwide on Xmas day due to everyone foning home. Didn't know when service would resume.
Stopped in at another Vodafone shop on 28/12/07 to ask why again. Assistant said problem occured 'yesterday' and still didn't know when it would be fixed. By this time my wife had gotten 'lost' twice on successive days whilst shopping in David Jones, leaving me with fretful daughter for 3 hours.
Stopped in at another Vodafone shop on 30/12/07 to ask why again. Assistant said 'there is no known problem' and denied there had ever been a problem - he looked at his computer to prove it! Suggested I ring Vodafone NZ but did not have a number. I have just logged onto their website but contact email rejected because my password is incorrect. They will text me a new password but of course I'm not recieving calls!! NB - website confirms that as a prepay customer I need do nothing upon arriving in Oz to switch to Global roaming - it's 'automatic'.
No it's not. Clearly there's a problem but their website (and some of their staff) won't admit it.
I suspect in 2 days time the problem will be attributed to everyone ringing eachother worldwide to say "Happy New Year!"
<grumblemoanbitch>
Oh yes, BTW, I had a nice Xmas, very hot here. Looking forward to Sydney NYE fireworks. (first time)
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I almost posted All Hail The Power of PAS the morning after the above post, because Vodaroaming resumed the following morning. But only for 20 minutes, and it was all over before I could get to a computer.
Roaming has resumed today, but I'm about to board a plane and fly home. Nice one Vodafone - despite the spin I still blame you.Anyway since Xmas is over maybe we could switch to NYE stories (by all means continue with Xmas stories if you have one). I have just experienced my first NYE is Sydney and might Ii just say Omigod!
These people know how to party! They have a mamoth fireworks display - not just on the Harbour bridge but at various bays surrounding it. And they're all synched ie they set off the same fireworks at the same time in the different bays, so it doesn't matter in which part of Sydney you are, you're experiencing the same thing (and presumably listening to the synchronised music on one of the radio stations).
And they have two displays. 8 minutes worth at 9pm for the kids who can't stay up; and 12 minutes worth at midnite for those that can. I didn't find out who was paying for it, but it highlights to me the need for Auckland to get their act together vis a vis one council to rule them all. And if it's not one 'Supercouncil' then maybe the role of the ARC needs to be expanded to cover citywide amenities.
BTW - the Boxing day and NY Day Sales in Sydney are over-rated (big discounts on out of fashion crap, no discount on the stuff you really want) but the Sydneysiders really lap them up. I now understand why my Auckland friends in retail are always so glum - kiwis are tight areses who don't know how to shop!! It seems likes Sydney has been shopping for 7 days straight so far!
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