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1 Text A
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2 Comprehension&nbs...
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3 Chinese Version
Unit 1 Text A
There was a time in America when you would be considered selfish and looked down upon if you refused to help someone in need, but "I don't want to get involved" has now become a national motto. Are people still willing to treat others with the same kindness their forefathers displayed? The author makes a cashless journey through the land of the almighty dollar to test his faith in America. And the ansere he finds is: you can still depend on the kindness of strangers.
The Kindness of Strangers
Mike Mclntyre
1 One summer I was driving from my hometown of Tahoe City, California, to New Orleans. In the middle of the desert, I came upon a young man standing by the roadside. He had his thumb out and held a gas can in his other hand. I drove right by him. Someone else will stop for him, I reasoned. Besides, that gas can is just a ploy to flag down a car and rob the driver. There was a time in this country when you’d be considered a jerk if you passed by somebody in need. Now you’re a fool for helping. With gangs, drug addicts, murderers, rapists, thieves and carjackers lurking everywhere, why risk it? “I don’t want to get involved” has become a national motto.
2 Several states later I was still thinking about the hitchhiker. Leaving him stranded in the desert didn’t bother me as much. What bothered me was how easily I had reached the decision. I never even lifted my foot off the accelerator. Does anyone stop anymore? I wondered.
3 I thought of my destination — New Orleans, the setting for Tennessee Williams’s play A Streetcar Named Desire. I recalled Blanche DuBois’s famous line: “Ihave always depended on the kindness of strangers.”
4 The kindness of strangers. It sounds so quaint. Could anyone rely on the kindness of strangers these days?
5 One way to test this would be for a person to journey from coast to coast without any money, relying solely on the good will of his fellow Americans. What kind of America would he find? Who would feed him, shelter him, carry him down the road?
6 The idea intrigued me. But who’d be crazy enough to try such a trip? Well, I figured, why not me.
7 The week I turned 37, I realized I’d never taken a gamble in my life. So I decided to make a leap of faith a continent wide — to go from the Pacific to the Atlantic without a penny. If I was offered money, I’d refuse it. I’d accept only rides, food and a place to rest my head. It would be a cashless journey through the land of the almighty dollar. My final destination would be Cape Fear in North Carolina, a symbol of all the fears I’d have to conquer during the trip.
8 I rose early on September 6, 1994, hoisted a 50-pound pack onto my back and headed for the Golden Gate Bridge. Then I took a sign from my backpack, displaying my destination to passing vehicles: “America.”
9 Drivers mouthed the word through windshields, then, smiled. Two women rode by on bicycles. “It’s a bit vague,” said one. A young man with a German accent wandered up and asked, “Where is this ‘America’?”
10 Indeed, for six weeks I tried to find out. I hitched 82 rides and covered 4,223 miles across 14 states. As I traveled, I discovered that others shared my fear. Folks were always warning me about someplace else. In Montana they told me to watch out for the cowboys in Wyoming. In Nebraska I was warned that people would not be as nice in Iowa.
11 Yet I was treated with kindness in every state I traveled. I was amazed by the stubborn capacity of Americans to help a stranger, even when it seemed to run contrary to their own best interests. One day in Nebraska a four-door sedan pulled to the road shoulder. When I reached the window, I saw two little old ladies dressed in their Sunday finest.
12 “I know you’re not supposed to pick up hitchhikers, but it’s so far between towns out here, you feel bad passing a person,” said the driver, who introduced herself as Vi. She and her sister Helen were going to see an eye doctor in Ainsworth, Nebraska.
13 I didn’t know whether to kiss them or scold them for stopping. This woman was telling me she’d rather risk her life than feel bad about passing a stranger on the side of the road. When they dropped me at a highway junction, I looked at Vi. We both spoke at the same time: “Be careful.”
14 Once when I was hitchhiking unsuccessfully in the rain, a trucker pulled over, locking his brakes so hard that he skidded on the grass shoulder. The driver told me he was once robbed at knifepoint by a hitchhiker. “But I hate to see a man stand out in the rain,” he added. “People don’t have no heart anymore.”
15 I found, however, that people were generally compassionate. A middle-aged Iowa couple shepherded me around for an hour, trying to help me find a campground. In South Dakota a woman whose family had given me a night’s lodging handed me two stamped post cards: one to let her know how my trip turned out; the other to send the next day, telling her where I was so she wouldn’t worry about me.
16 Hearing I had no money and would take none, people in every state bought me food or shared whatever they happened to have with them. A park ranger in Ukiah, Calif., gave me some carrots. A college student handed me sacks filled with organic tomatoes and melons. A woman in Iowa gave me two bundles of graham crackers, two cans of soda, two cans of tuna, two apples and two pieces of chicken.
17 The people who had the least to give often gave the most. In Oregon a home painter named Mike noted the chilly weather and asked if I had a coat. When I replied, “a light one,” he drove me to his house, rummaged through his garage and handed me a bulky green Army-style jacket.
18 Elsewhere in Oregon a lumber-mill worker named Tim invited me to a simple dinner with his family in their dilapidated house. He gave me a Bible. Then he offered me his tent. I refused, knowing it was probably one of the family’s most valuable possessions. But Tim was determined that I have it, and finally I agreed to take it.
19 I was grateful to all the people I met for their rides, their food, their shelter, their gifts. But the kindest act of all was when they merely were themselves.
20 One day I walked into the local chamber of commerce in Jamestown, Tennessee. A man inside the old stone building jumped up from his cluttered desk. “Come on in,” said Baxter Wilson, 59. He was the executive director.
21 When I asked him about camping in the area, he handed me a brochure for a local campground. “Would you like me to call for you?” he asked.
22 Seeing that it cost $12, I replied, “No, that’s all right. I’m not sure what I’m going to do.”
23 Then he saw my backpack. “Almost anybody around here will let you pitch a tent on their land, if that’s what you want,” he said.
24 Now you’re talking, I thought. “Any particular direction?” I asked.
25 “Tell you what. I’ve got a big farm about ten miles south of here. If you’re here at 5:30, you can ride with me. “
26 I accepted, and we drove out to a magnificent country house. Suddenly I realized he’d invited me to spend the night in his home.
27 His wife, Carol, was cooking a pot roast when we walked into the kitchen. A seventh-grade science teacher, she was the picture of Southern charm.
28 Baxter explained that local folks were “mountain stay-at-home people”, and he considered himself one of them. “We rarely entertain in our house,” he said. “When we do, it’s usually kin.” The revelation made my night there all the more special.
29 The next morning when I came downstairs, Carol asked if I’d come to her school and talk to her class about my trip. I told her I didn’t want to encourage a bunch of seventh-graders to hitchhike across the United States. But Carol said the kids should be exposed to what else is out there — the good and the bad. “They need to know,” she said.
30 I agreed, and before long had been scheduled to talk to every class in the school. All the kids were well-mannered and attentive. Their questions kept coming: Where were people the kindest? How many pairs of shoes did I have? Had anybody tried to run me over? Were the pigs’ feet as good in other parts of the country? Had I fallen in love with anyone? What was I most afraid of?
31 Although I hadn’t planned it this way, I discovered that a patriotic tone ran through the talks I gave that afternoon. I told the students how my faith in America had been renewed. I told them how proud I was to live in a country where people were still willing to help out a stranger. I told them that the question I had in mind when I planned the trip was clearly answered. Indeed, no matter who you are, you can still depend on the kindness of strangers.
