On Sundays, the post office was crowded with migrant workers who came to Shanghai to work, those who made long-distance calls, sent money and sent parcels, with a foreign accent. In the past, Huang Guilong liked this kind of atmosphere very much. They were all working people of his kind. He felt recognized here. Sometimes people who knew or didn't know could get together and exchange information about working. But today, his eyes kept searching for the Shanghainese he thought he could ask for help.
A girl with the appearance of a middle school student stood in front of him to buy stamps. He boldly stepped forward and asked, "Miss, could you please write these few foreign words on the envelope?" The girl looked at him with a reserved look, then answered. Past the note he handed over: "Oh, don't you see that you, a migrant worker, and friends in foreign countries?" "Well, in France, but I can't write foreign characters, please, miss."
The note left by Martina was crumpled, and the girl looked at it and thought about it and said: "This is French. I'm afraid that it is not good. If it is wrong, the letter will not be mailed. You might as well spend 30 cents. Copy the note and paste it on the envelope. It won't be wrong." Huang Guilong nodded and said yes, and did what the girl said.
He did not sleep well last night, and wanted to write a letter to Martina telling her how he lived these days, but after thinking about it most of the night, he couldn't think of a specific thing to say. Have you all been like this? Eat, work, sleep, don't you laugh at the letter? So he decided to send the newspaper to Martina, as long as she believed that he was a good man, a man who earns money from work, that's all there is.
Walking out of the post office, he couldn't open his eyes with the sunshine in the spring, and hope was flowing on people's faces. He doesn't know where France is. Anyway, it is a very far away place, but is that place also spring now? He thought so.