Yet another post office story

I could write a book just on post office stories.

I went this week with the following items:

• A business envelope addressed to Turkey (not to "a turkey," but to someone who lives in "the country of Turkey," lest someone suggest I am name-calling, which I am not).
• A business envelope addressed to the USA.
• Two more-square-than-rectangle shaped white envelopes addressed to the USA.
• A yellow more-square-than-rectangle shaped envelope addressed to France.
• An 8x11 envelope filled with two books, folded in half and taped together so that it is shaped like a package (which is really what it is), but in an envelope, addressed to France.

I waited in the long line for the woman behind the counter to help me because as is usual for me, I did not have enough change for the do-it-yourself machine. When it finally came to be my turn, I handed her my large stack of international mail. She picked up the Turkey envelope first, put it on the scale, and typed Turkey into the computer.

Something clearly went wrong.

She squinted at the machine, shook her head in confusion, reached over to the envelope, picked it up, and then placed it back onto the scale. After a moment and another attempt to type Turkey into the computer, she said, "I don't believe it." She looked at me with a sheepish apologetic look on her face and said, "My computer just crashed. Sorry."

She directed me to the other line, to which I moved and began my wait all over again. When I got to the front of that line, I handed her my large stack of international mail. She seemed a little perplexed, but the ever-capable French governmental worker will not be stumped by an envelope to Turkey, oh no! She will prevail!

She sorts it all and decides to work on the stack to the US first. They get stamped. Then she eyes the Turkey envelope, types it in, and gets a stamp out of the machine. We're good, right? Because the other things are for France, which should not be too difficult for a French postal worker.

She picks up the yellow more-square-than-rectangle envelope and says, "This doesn't work in France."

So I can mail one that shape the the Unites States--across an ocean?!--but I can't mail it here in France?! I ask her why not, and she replies, "Because I have to click 'personal letter' or 'business documents.' It's clearly not a business document (eyeing that canary yellow with suspicion), nor a personal letter. What IS this?!"

"It's a personal letter...in a card. A canary yellow card." (Okay, I didn't say the canary yellow part.)

She clicks "personal letter" in the computer, and shocker of all shockers! the computer gives her a stamp. It's clear that she's amazed that such an envelope can, actually, be mailed in France.

Then she picks up the small package and says, "This doesn't work either. Is it a package? Is it a letter? It's neither. How can I mail this?"

Now obviously I have never worked in a post office. Nor do I have good experiences when in them. But I have mailed my fair share of items around the world, and I am of the belief system that anything can be mailed for a price. If Donald Trump wanted to mail me an elephant, someone would figure out how to get a stamp to stick on the thing's trunk and I would have to find somewhere to house that elephant, because it would end up on my doorstep here in France. (Actually, it wouldn't...because the French postman would probably say, "I can't deliver this.")

Anyway, I stare at her for a moment. Did the postal woman just ask me how to mail my package? Can't she just stick it on the scale, and put a stamp according to the weight? No. She's got to click either package or letter, and the fact that it is neither is blowing her mind.

"Can it be a letter? Because that's probably cheaper and easier than a package, right?"

"Yes, with a package, you'd have to fill out this form." Because this is France, and of course there is a form for everything.

"Then it's a letter."

Her mind blows right in front of me, and I see smoke coming out of her ears as she clicks letter in the computer, weighs the package, and is shocked to see that the computer accepts the weight of it as a letter.

I wanted to say, "Now, that wasn't so difficult, was it?" but she still seemed in shock.

Post offices. What is it with me and them?

Wild Goose Chase

Because I have moved so many times, I've ended up with a lot of mailing addresses. Someone recently (very kindly) sent me a care package...but to my old address in Marseille instead of my current one. We didn't discover the fact until a few weeks after the package had been mailed, and so I feared that it had already been through a failed delivery attempt.

Going to the post office has never been a pleasant experience for me in any country, (I can hear my dad coughing "understatement" from all the way across the ocean), and so I've been working on finding the nice post office in Marseille. Surely, out of all the post offices, there must at least one nice one. And I will take a bus if I have to, in order to go to a nice one.

So the day after I found out that I had a package headed my way, but to the wrong address, I went to the nice post office, praying for grace, mercy, and favor, and approached the worker behind the desk.

"Bonjour. I have a slightly bizarre situation." (Intrigue the French worker into being nice and helpful...)

"Ooh, do tell."

"Someone in the US mailed me a package...but they accidently put the wrong address on it. How can I know if it has already been attempted to be delivered, and what would happen to it if the mailman has already tried to deliver it?"

"Well, you can look up the tracking number on it to find out where it is, and if a delivery attempt was made. If they did try to deliver it, and it's the wrong address, they'll send it to the big post office, where it'll wait for 15 days, and if it's not claimed, be sent back."

"Great! Where's the big post office?"

"Near the giant thumb. Do you know the giant thumb?"

I stare at him for a minute. Sometimes language needs a moment to sort itself out. The word for "thumb" is also the word for a "microchip", and sounds identical to the word for "flea." In any case, none of the words seemed to make sense...giant thumb, giant microchip, giant flea. My mental wheels spun as fast as they could, trying to sort it out, and then I remembered: Marseille has a round-a-bout with a statue of a giant thumb. (I have NO IDEA why, and I like to imagine that the Giant from Jack and the Beanstalk is buried under that round-a-bout, and his thumb is all that's left of him.)

"Yes, the giant thumb. The post office is near there?"

"Yes." And he gives me the address.

I decide to go to the post office that has jurisdiction over my old apartment, just in case the package may just be sitting there, before wandering all the way to the giant thumb. Again, I approach the worker and say, "Bonjour. I have a bizarre situation." As soon as I recount it to him, he tsks at me and says, "Sorry. Packages with the wrong address are sent immediately back to the sender. Immediately. What good would it do to hold on to a package that is undeliverable. Sorry." He was so rude about it that I wanted to point my finger at him and say, "You, sir, are the reason that there is a stereotype that labels French people as rude." I held my tongue, though, and went on my way.

When talking to Joy on the phone about it, and asking her how I could use the customs number to track down the package, we discovered via the USPS website that the package had indeed made it to France...but the website said that due to the incorrect address, had been returned to the sender...the day before. I wondered if that meant that it could possibly still be sitting in the big post office, not mailed back to the US yet.

I ran out the door to go hunt down the big post office by the giant thumb. (You know you live overseas when...) My GPS on my phone said that it was only 2.5 kms/36 minutes walking away, but I decided a bus would be faster. Ha. When will I ever learn?

For some reason, I had it in my head that bus 19 went that way. I stopped a woman at the bus stop, and asked her if bus 19 went to avenue d'Haifa. She said she didn't know, but to ask the bus driver. Now...had I been in Paris, that would have been the end of it, and she would not have said another word. But, Toto, we're not in Paris anymore! She climbed on the bus and informed the bus driver that I needed help.

I asked him if the bus goes to avenue d'Haifa. He whistled that long, descending note of a whistle that tells you you've made a mistake, shook his head at me, stopped the bus (in the middle of the road), and said, "No way lady! Not this bus. What you need, see, is bus 23. Hop off right now, go up that road over there, see it? Follow it, and you'll find bus 23. It goes to avenue d'Haifa. Off you go now..." and he opened the door to let me off in the middle of traffic to go hunt down bus 23.

I followed my GPS down the road he'd pointed me towards, and sure enough...right as I came out on a main road, there was bus 23 sitting stopped in traffic. Since I saw that I was nowhere near a bus stop, I ran up to him and banged on the door (as I've seen the locals do), and he opened it to let me on.

For about five minutes, the bus followed the path on the GPS exactly. But I could see there was a turn on the GPS (walking directions), and I didn't know if the bus was going to turn. I leaned over to ask the woman next to me if the bus would turn onto avenue d'Haifa, all the while speaking in a quiet, Parisian public transport tone of voice. Well, again...this isn't Paris.

The woman responded (in slang), "I dunno... Hey everyone...avenue d'Haifa? Does that ring a bell to any of you?" Yes, she yelled to the WHOLE BUS to help me find out where to go. They hollered back and everyone joined in informing me about avenue d'Haifa. One of them even pressed the button for when I needed to get off. I was so bewildered by the friendliness, helpfulness, and um, noise, that I just kept mumbling "merci," over and over as I scurried off the bus.

And sure enough...there was the giant thumb.

Turns out the post office was not easily visible on avenue d'Haifa, and I had to ask for more help. When I finally found it, I went in and again explained my bizarre situation. The woman informed me that the package would indeed have been returned immediately to the sender. With a little bit of desperation in my voice, I asked, "Is there any way someone can look, just to double check, that it hasn't been mailed back yet? I am just hoping for that slightest chance of good fortune." She looked at me like I was sad, pitiful, and insane, and then said, "Yes. You can go to X place and ask there...that's where it would be. But they will tell you the same thing...it's gone already." I thanked her, followed her directions, and ended up in the bowels of the grand post office in Marseille.

The workers were a little surprised to see a non-worker there when I appeared...and especially when I opened my mouth and they heard my foreigner accent, as I, again, recounted my bizarre situation. With her uber-Marseille accent, she told me, "Non, non, it would have been returned already. We send the mail out first thing in the morning." I played up the puppy dog eyes again, and convinced her to please go look. She even took my paper with the customs info, and showed it to her supervisor to have him help look for it.

I am sure that after all this, you are expecting a happy ending of, "And they came back out with my box!" Nope. No such luck. It had been mailed back to the US the day before. One wild goose chase. I stopped and took a picture of the giant thumb on the way home...and that's about all I have to show for this whole long story.

Paying the Internet Bill

My internet bill arrived last week, with a note posted on it that I can now pay it at the post office! Oh joy, another reason to go there!

(My dad started laughing as soon as I said the words "post office.")

There is actually a really nice elderly man working there now, so it's not so bad. I haven't seen Mean Post Office Man in awhile. So I thought to myself, "Awesome! Now I can pay ALL my bills right downstairs, and never have to taxi somewhere just to pay a bill." Big grins from the girl who does not enjoy taxi'ing.

So I walk in the PO with my internet bill in hand, money in wallet, ready to go. I hand the bill to the Nice Post Office Man, and say I'd like to pay my internet bill.

"Phone bill?" NPOM says. (Remember, the phone company and the internet company are one and the same. Monopoly...grrr).

"No. Internet bill." I point on the bill to where it says, "ADSL."

NPOM then proceeds to type "adsl" into the username space on his screen. It pulls up that I owe 690 ds. Umm...no. My bill is for 123 ds. I show him this. He scratches his head and types in my boss's name (who the account is under). Nothing comes up. He tries the account number listed on the bill, but it pulls up that I owe nothing.

"Phone bill?" NPOM askes again.

"No. ADSL bill. Internet."

He then types "adsl" in every possible space on his screen. The only one that works was the first that he'd tried, and says that I owe 690. I try explaining that ADSL is internet, it is called that for everyone, and that those letters have nothing to do with ME personally. But he doesn't get it. He goes and calls his supervisor, and comes back enlightened with a new idea to try.

"User name?" NPOM asks.

I write it on the bill for him (it's Keefe's last name, and goodness knows he wouldn't know how to spell it if I only said it). No luck. Again, nothing.

"I'll just go to the internet office."

"Yes, that is better, inshallah." Nice Post Office Man. Hopefully he'll learn how to do internet payments soon.

So the next week day, I wait until 4:15 to go to the internet office. Why so late? Because I wasn't ready to leave in order to get there by 1:00. And everything shuts down for the siesta at 1:00. (Funny, I didn't realize I was still in a Latino culture, and I'm sure they don't call it siesta, but they sure do take one every day!) So I wait until a bit after 4 to ensure that the office will be open.

I catch my taxi over to the office to find out they do NOT close from 1-4. They close from 3-5. I actually muttered the words, "stupid country." I think that may be a first in my life. Thus far, I've had three times in this country that I've very consciously waited to go somewhere to make sure I don't have to wait for the reopening after siesta, and wouldn't you know ALL three places have different hours for the siesta?

So I taxi'd home, waited a bit longer, taxi'd back, and happily paid my bill. (Why didn't I wait the 40 minutes there? Because it was about 110 degrees outside and I didn't have any water!)

Oh, but there's more!

Three times now, when I've paid a bill (this last one included), I would owe some odd amount: 98 ds, 123 ds, etc. This time, I owed 123.33. I handed the man 200.50 ds. He handed me the .50 back and asked if I had 25 ds (normal), and I responded no (also normal). So he gave me 80 ds back. With a receipt that said I'd paid 120 ds. (Remember that the bill was 123).

The first time this happened, I asked the man why he wasn't letting me pay my whole bill. He said he didn't have exact change, and would I prefer to pay less bill or more bill? I said, "I don't want my electricity stopped!" He laughed and said, "No worry about that. No stop. You pay close enough."

So how's that, huh? And it's not like next time you pay the extra that you didn't pay the first time around, either. (At least I haven't noticed so far. My bills are the same each month). So, 2 ds here and 3 there... in a few months the utilities company and internet company will buying me a coffee!

I'd love to say that since my internet bill is paid, I'm no longer having internet problems, but that's not so true. Still having problems, and had to call the company again today. I do have to say, though... That despite the fact that it took them two months to install my internet, despite the fact that haven't taught the post office people how to do the thing they advertise can be done, despite the fact that their server/browser (whatever) never works for me...their technical support people are very nice, very helpful, and speak great English. Good customer service.

Just wish I didn't need to be served...

Mysteries Abound

I was in another city last week when I ran into an acquaintance. He pulled me aside from the group of people nearby and said, "I've got mail for you."

"Mail???" I replied, utterly confused. I have two email accounts--one personal and for work. I have my own post office box. Why would anyone send me mail through him, someone I hardly know and who lives in a different city? Mystery number one.

"I received an envelope in my post office box--here in this city--addressed to you and with your address--in your city. With your company's name and logo as the return address."

Okay, mystery number two! My company doesn't send my mail overseas. They send snailmail to my stateside address, and anything they want me to actually read is sent via email. I am one of the lucky people who work for them that actually has a post office box.

He went to the car and brought back the mystery envelope. Mystery number three: it had no postage whatsoever. No US postage, no local postage. Just a plain white, 8x11 envelope with a sticker printed with my name and address from my company with their name, logo, and address.

How in the world did a piece of mail that would never be sent to me from my company get sent internationally, to be delivered in someone else's post office box?

Mysterious. And I'm a bit paranoid about it. Maybe I've been watching too much Alias...

Ode to Lo-Ren

I hailed a taxi, climbed in and said, "The General Post Office."

"Pohss Awwfiz n Rolllaaa?"

Uh-oh. Can there be more than one general post office?

"The BIG post office."

"Okay! No problem!" He would have gas'd it at that point, if not for the traffic. I got comfortable, called a friend and began chatting away. Several minutes later, my taxi driver began having a conversation with the car on our right. He's YELLING across our car out the open window in who knows what language.

My friend on the phone says, "Do you hear that noise? What IS that?"

I laugh. "My taxi driver. He's bored in traffic, just like me."

We finally get to the post office, to which he drives round and round the block, trying to find the entry for the front door. In my excitement to get out and pick up my long awaited care package, I didn't even wait for my change. He asked, "Me way fo yooo?"

"No thanks!" I wave at him as I run up the steps.

The General Post office is about five times the size of my little post office by my house! I stand back, take in all the lines, and finally decide on the one that says, "Postal Services." (You'd think with all my education I'd be quicker than that, right?)

At the postal services line, I am quickly directed to another line. (This is why I observe first. Logic never works overseas). I went to the line at the very end, and took care of the mailing I needed to do. I showed the man my package slip, and he pointed me to another line. I went to that line, showed my package slip, and was directed to yet another line. (Shortly after that, I watched another customer flash HIS package slip to the man in the line I'd just left, and he got his package. Grrrr...)

I show my package slip for the fourth time, and finally get a positive response. I had to sign the slip, pay 2 ds, (yes, I had to PAY money to receive what belongs to me...), and then I'm shown my package. I confirm that it does belong to me, and then the package is carried over to customs. (AHHHH, when will they just HAND it to me? I am not patient when it comes to gifts!)

At the customs desk, things got interesting. The man in front of me had received a mysterious package. At customs, they tear open your box and look inside. What was inside his box? A clear plastic bag with approximately two pounds of white powder. I don't care what country you live in, that stuff's going to be inspected! There was all kind of yelling in various languages, the customer explaining that it is "glass manufacturing materials", and security men involved. More excitement than I know how to describe.

Finally the customs inspector told the man that he had to pay 10 ds, and that they were sending his box to the Municipality. If it clears the Municipality, he can pick it up later. Hmmm... Glad to know they weren't going to let that stuff just walk into this country without fully inspecting it first. Wonder what the stuff is...

So then they rip open my box. They didn't even look! There could have been plastic bags of white powder underneath all the stuff on top, for all they know. If they'd really dug, they would have found 10 bags of white powder inside each box labeled Jiffy Corn Muffin Mix. But alas, I'm not as exciting as the man next to me in the customs line, and my white powder really IS corn muffin mix (and not "glass manufacturing materials...").

My box also included: Bubbles, a book, a journal, cute notepad paper, and other flavored muffin mix. Lo-ren rocks. (And sorry Ms. Deb, you lost... Lo's was sent air mail, and took a little over three weeks.)

I skipped to m' lou outside and was suprised to find the taxi driver waiting for me. He'd parked in the shade, and waited near the door to the post office for me. With a big smile, he said,

"I way fo yooo."

He got another big tip. It's a good day in the neighborhood.

Apology

I had that feeling today. That feeling that there was mail in the mailbox. I ran around the corner to the post office box room, stuck my key in, and sure enough! My first piece of mail in the country had arrived! A slip of paper telling me a package had arrived. (I bet all my money that there are boxes of Jiffy corn muffin mix in that package!)

So you know what this means, right? I had to face the post office men.

Well, Mean Post Office Man was there, helping another woman. He was smiling and laughing and totally being nice.

I realized I haven't portrayed him, his colleagues, or his fellow countrymen very well. I'm sorry.

The Arab men, on the whole, are extremely polite to me. They open doors. They allow me to go to the front of lines, to go first in most situations. I feel very respected usually by them. Even the Mean Post Office Man, as I saw today, can be nice. He must just not like ME--not the first time in my life, to be sure!

And to redeem him--he was nice to me today. He told me I had to go somewhere else to pick up my package. He told me, not yelled at me. So Loren and Ms. Deb--I don't know which one of yall won. I'll let you know on Saturday, when the PO opens again.

Post Office is beginning to equate Perpetually Offended

After several, ahem, difficult experiences at the post office, I try to avoid going as much as possible these days. I wait until I have several things stacked up, and knock them all out in one shot. However, I'd heard a rumor recently that I can now pay my bills at the post office. Joy and sorrow hit me all at once. Joy that I don't have to taxi to some far off place and wait in line with unpleasant people for hours, sorrow that I have to face the mean post office men for yet another reason.

I said a "Lord help me!" prayer as I walked in the post office today, hoping today's trip would not reduce me to tears or cursing. I walked up to the counter, and Weird Post Office Man begins speaking Arabic softly. (Mean Post Office Man was not there, thankfully). I assume he is either speaking to himself or to the other (non-descript) post office man.

I hand him my bill, he keeps talking.

I hand him my money. He keeps talking.

By this point, I figure, if he's weird enough to talk to himself, then I can play that game too. I say softly to myself, "I don't know what you're saying. Are you talking to me or to him? If you're talking to me, you know I don't speak Arabic. If you're talking to him, you should look at him, and not me, when speaking. It's all rather confusing. You're still talking..."

As we continue our business, Non-Descript Post Office Man says in English,

"You don't speak Arabic?"

"No."

"So you didn't understand him?"

"No..."

"He basically said he is going to marry you, make you a good Muslim, cover those curls of yours, and have children with your beautiful blue eyes. Don't you want to learn Arabic now?"

"No."

At what point will it be okay for me to bust out with some kung-fu fighting on these guys?

Average Day

My electricity, water, and gas bill finally arrived. (After six weeks in the 1307 flat).
Typical Central Asian in all accounts--

• The meter was read a month ago, but printed and delivered only today.
• The box that reads 'Total Amount Due' reads 29.19. Then another box elsewhere reads 31.23. How much is due? Not the total amount, but the other number.
• Three bills printed on one sheet of paper, shoved in the crack of my door. Glad there's no wind to blow it away...
• If it states where to pay, it must say it in Arabic. I've got 7 days to figure it out.

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I walked into the post office. The men made no effort to hide their animosity towards me. I placed my envelope down on the counter, and the "outside! outside!" man stuck his hand out to me. I handed him money and he slammed the change on the counter. The man next to me, another customer, grabbed my envelope. Mean postal worker man says to me, "He help you!" and hands my stamp to the other customer.

Gross customer man proceeds to slowly lick his stamp while grinning at me, slapping his slobber covered work on to my envelope, which he then hands to me with a disgusting smile. He gives me a big grin, to which I wanted to spit in return, but refrained.

The post office, and all it's experiences, is NOT 'average joe worthy.' (See following post).

--------------------------------------------

I climb into a taxi and say, "Coral Beach Hotel." It's a major landmark near my friend's house, and all taxi drivers know it. All but this one.

"Beeeech Otel?"

"Coral Beach Hotel." Petal to the metal, he takes off, and stops the near death ride in front a row of hotels on the beach.

"No. Ummm... Beach Road."

"Beeeech!" Petal to the metal, he takes off, and I shout, "Not beach! Beach ROAD. Towards A-town."

"A-town? Okay!" He slams on the brakes, changes directions, petal to the metal, heads towards A-town. On the way, he talks to me.

"For me, English NO OKAY! Pashto, okay! Hindi, okay! Urdu, Okay! English, NO OKAY! English problem me!"

I exit the death ride, tip him extra and say, "Learn some English." He smiles. Petal to the metal and he's gone.

-------------------------------------------

Current outside temperature: 100 degrees. We finally passed into the triple digits.

another post office story

May 4, 2004

I walked into the post office. The men made no effort to hide their animosity towards me. I placed my envelope down on the counter, and the "outside! outside!" man stuck his hand out to me. I handed him money and he slammed the change on the counter. The man next to me, another customer, grabbed my envelope. Mean postal worker man says to me, "He help you!" and hands my stamp to the other customer.

Gross customer man proceeds to slowly lick his stamp while grinning at me, slapping his slobber covered work on to my envelope, which he then hands to me with a disgusting smile. He gives me a big grin, to which I wanted to spit in return, but refrained.

Typical girl, but with FAB hair!

I'm such a typical female it's not even funny.

I found out yesterday that the local Internet company has no idea when my net will be connected in my apartment (have I ever mentioned the Inshallah Mentality?)
I woke up this morning to find that the cats I am watching had thrown up on my floor.
I got in an arguement with the postman today over a stamp--he tried to charge me way too much and make it look like I had a language barrier (basically he took my money and then refused to give me change).

By 9am, I was near tears. Then I went to a beauty salon and spent two hours having my hair colored, cut, and blow dried straight.

And all is well with the world. See? Typical girl.

I'd write more, but the keys at this internet cafe stick something fierce, and we don't want that to negate the salon high.

outside! outside!

Going to the Post Office in a foreign country can always be interesting. Lucky for me, the local Post Office is right in my building! So I don't have to journey far for the experience. I just recently opened a PO box (since having mail delivered to my house is not an option in this country), and got to enter some contest. My supervisor reminded me to check to see if I'd won, so I decided to mail some letters, check my box, and see if I'd won this contest.

Inside the post office, I handed the mailman my stack of letters. He asked if they were all going to within our country. "No. All to the USA."

"USA! USA!" He exclaims. He hands me a stack of stamps that have to be licked for application. (Oh...the days of living in the US when stamps are self-adhesive! Licking is better than India, where you have to use this wooden stick to apply the GLUE to the stamp!) So I stand there licking my stamps and applying them to my envelopes. Then I ask where do I go to check my mailbox.

"It not work!?" The man exclaims."No, it works fine. I just don't know where to go." (This is a small room with no obvious mail box room).

"Outside! Outside! Other door! Other door!" (Why he felt the need to exclaim every time and twice is beyond me.)
Then I asked, "Do you take the letters or do I place them somewhere?"
"Outside! Outside!" By this point he is obviously annoyed with me. I hold up my contest ticket to ask about that, and he just points to the door. If everything is "outside! outside!" then what do they DO in this post office...?

I look at a list on the door, and realize I have not won a Mercedes. I go outside! outside! and allow my young (13 year old) friend to place mail in a mail box for the first time in her life (ah, the joys of being friends with Third Culture Kids), and then we go around to another door to find where the post office boxes are. She'd never seen this either, so I got to explain how it all worked. We opened my box, and reminiscent of college days, felt the dejection of an empty box. Maybe another day. (Those of you who have that box number...get that mail acoming!)

Then we went back outside! outside! and on our merry way... without a mercedes or mail.