"Bonsoir" he asked, effectively asking if I was French.
"Hola?" he guessed again, without giving me a chance to answer the first. I finally told him I was Australian and spoke English.
This was Edison, I was later to learn. Earlier I was involuntarily introduced to him, finding him sleeping in a lower bunk in my dorm. He had the same clothes on now as he did then. That was two days ago, and, like I say, he was asleep then.
Now, there was a strange aroma coming from my room, into which I had rushed out of the rain. The smell came from a small thermos-like receptacle, in which he was stirring. I asked him what it was.
"An oven - electric."
On further inspection, it was one of many appliances he had with him down there: an iPod with speakers which I never saw used, and a couple of other gadgets, all running out of an all-too-cumbersome powerboard. He was also sporting a walkman I could hear, with large, uncool earphones.
"I am electrical engineer," he said, then burst into spontaneous, raucous, all-consuming laughter, not for the last time.
Having finally taken the scene in, I asked him what he was cooking.
"Rice."
I must have looked surprised to hear such a bland answer when I could smell such flavours. He made a further offer:
"Oriental rice." That was enough for me.
An hour earlier, when I was in the dry courtyard, I'd seen him climb the stairs towards our room with two huge shopping bags. I wondered where they'd gone.
In the meantime I fooled around with my iPod. He offered to let me charge it. "No charge" he said, launching into laughter at his pun.
Ignoring the laughter I accepted the offer, at first thinking it kind, but then realising he was using the only power point in the room.
I asked why he wasn't eating out, or eating French food. "French food is all the same. Too much bread." I somehow managed not to laugh - how often has the same thing been said about Asian food and rice?
But there were also some good Chinese and Vietnamese restaurants along the main road. What about them?
"Too expensive."
And with that, everything clicked. This middle-aged bloke was staying in the cheapest hostel in town and was making every cent count, perhaps at the expense of some of his Parisian experience. Especially the food, which is no small part of the experience.
I liked the setup he'd organised there and told him as much, and asked if I could take a picture of him. He agreed. I asked him to smile. He didn't. But he was friendly nonetheless.
He sat over his huge rectangular bag which held his luggage. Large and functional it was. A minute later I saw him open the bag and inside was the shopping - almost all of the two large bags - and also a small rucksack that could only take a couple of pairs of socks and jocks.
I turned away to examine the photo, confirming that he didn't smile, and it dawned on me that I didn't know his name, even after taking his photo. I suddenly felt incredibly rude.
"I'm Ross," I blurted out.
"Rossu? I am Edison"
Edison. I spontaneously laughed at his name, thinking it surely more than a coincidence that an electrical engineer with a huge powerboard would have such a name. Of course you are.
He didn't quite see the humour in that (or maybe he saw it too often) and changes the subject.
"You are Australian? Your ancestors are from England?"
"Yeah I think from somewhere up north"
"And you are descended from your ancestors?" More raucous laughter. What surprised me most was that it wasn't contagious.
"Uh, yeah" I feigned a chuckle.
"You are descended from Anglo Saxons?"
"Uh, yeah I guess... what about you Edison? Are you descended from the Anglo Saxons?"
"No"
He didn't see the irony.
"Oh," I stammered, and got on with my affairs. re-packing my bag had suddenly become very important, and required my full attention.
A minute later he grabbed his chair and sat right in the doorway, watching the rain and the empty courtyard below. And blocking my exit. Headphones on he ate his oriental rice.
I sat on my bunk amused, and a little envious that he genuinely didn't care that he was going things differently, or even if he got in anyone else's way.
Ten minutes later he was asleep. In the same clothes.
---
Post Script
I was going to leave the story there, except on the next night I got another insight into Edison.
An older bloke, maybe mid to late 40s, arrived in our dorm. Like Edison (and me I guess), I suspect he sought out the cheapest hostel. He looked haggard, and had some difficulty explaining through broken English that he hadn't slept the night before. Only Edison and I were in the room. Between us it actually took a while to figure out that his first language was Spanish, and that he was Argentinian.
As soon as he said Spanish, Edison exploded into a frenzy of cliches, interspersed with his raucous laughter.
The Argentinian bloke, a gentle but tall man, was clearly at the end of his tether due to lack of sleep. He was at first relieved that someone in the room understood Spanish. Edison would say "my amigo!" and the Argentinian would try to talk to him.
Edison couldn't hear because he was laughing. When he finished laughing he's launch into another cliche, while the exasperated Argentinian slowly came the the realisation that he did not infact know any Spanish, and was spouting these phrases for his own (and only his own) amusement.
It was quite grotesque.
Infact, watching it all in slow motion from my bunk, it was all too much for me. Edison wouldn't stop. I had to turn away, after trying to apologise to the Argentinian. I was physically cringing from the exchange. I expected the Argentinian, who looked like he'd learnt to be gentle in spite of his imposing figure, rather than being naturally gentle, to get angry any minute.
Luckily it didn't happen, and the Argentinian was soon asleep. But it was no thanks to Edison.
