Shanghai Train K8418 to Huang Shan Shi
I have my own sleeper compartment it appears, which is simultaneously something of a relief and a disappointment.
On the one hand, it would have been nice to share the compartment with some Chinese students, or an old sage monk who could reveal to me the secrets of inner peace. Or, I must reluctantly admit, some Swedish bikini model on holiday.
On the other hand, it appears that none of the inhabitants of this train car fit any of those descriptions.
There is a friendly French family of three from Marseilles, whom I befriended at the station; the father, Jean, reads more Chinese than I do, having taken classes for 3 years in preparation for his trip. There’s an elderly French couple that speaks no English, who looked at me very sourly indeed when I accidentaly occupied their seat.
They were much more cheerful when I brought Jean’s wife over to ask for my biscuits back, which I’d accidentally left behind. There’s a dapper older Chinese gentleman in a grey tweed suit and trilby — I could not invent that if I wanted to — who gave me a very familiar gaping stare as I asked if he’d seen my biscuits, in my trademark broken Chinese.
And aside from a British guy with what I must assume is his Shanghainese girlfriend, that’s about it.
All in all, I suppose I’ll be happy to have my own little cave from which to enjoy the views; assuming they’re not all of industrial wasteland.