Moving to another country is both more and less than I expected it to be. There's more introspection than I thought there would be. I've already learned more about myself in the 6 months we've been in Montpellier than I did in the entire year before in California. Who knew I could be this aggressive a driver, for instance? I grew up in California, learned to drive there, battled southbound traffic on 880 every morning for years, so I like to think I'm...firm in my driving. But driving in Bay Area traffic doesn't hold a candle to the Formula One racetrack that Montpellier roads are, which explains why, given the choice, I let Dave drive.
There's more of the day to day that's different than I was prepared for, too. Oh, I knew the TV would be in French, as well as the vast majority of the rest of life. That sort of thing is easy to comprehend. It's the more mundane things that get old after a while. The things you never think about when you do them on your home turf, and if you thought about trying to do them in another country you couldn't begin to find areas where they could go wrong. It all seems so simple. And it is - unless it's in another language, in another culture, where the rules are turned upside down and everybody seems to know them but you.
The mail seems to be one of those things. I tried to mail a package the other day and found out that the post office carries an extremely limited selection of boxes in which to send things and they most certainly didn't have a box big enough for what I wanted to send. Simple problem to solve, right? Go somewhere else, get a box, some packing tape and a roll of that brown paper which, when I used to see it in California, always made me wish I knew more people out of state so I could send them "Care Packages".
I never quite knew what I would put in these mythical Care Packages, but I liked to think about it. Anyone who's gotten a present from me knows that I'm not the world's best gift wrapper. When I actually get organized enough to compile paper, scissors, tape and the object in question in the same room, it generally comes out sort of a mess. Tape and my fingers don't seem to be able to come to an agreement. The tape doubles back and sticks to my fingernails, and then we have to have a conversation to try to cajole the tape into loosening it's death grip on my digits, because I need to use them. Tape dispensers are lethal weapons in my hands because of that tiny little razor than you use to cut the tape - I've actually drawn blood with those things. Plus, I'm usually wrapping the thing about 10 minutes before presentation to the recipient, so by the time I'm done, I'm sweating. Lots of people have gotten gifts from me wrapped cunningly in plastic bags from Safeway. They serve their purpose - you can't see what's inside, right? So I'm not sure why I would think I'd be able to channel Martha Stewart long enough to create, wrap and send a care package that someone would actually want to receive. What would I put in such a thing anyway? Cookies would be in mortal danger from my tape impaired fingers. Nothing says "I'm thinking of you but I'm a klutz" like a batch of snickerdoodle crumbs at the bottom of a dented box.
The only time I ever seem to be able to get the wrapping thing under control is at Christmas. I've wrapped some big boxes for Christmas in my time - like last year's DVD player - and some very oddly shaped items, too, such as numerous baskets. They usually come out OK. Either that or everyone is so hopped up on eggnog that they don't notice.
But the item I wanted to wrap the other day was a problem, since not only is it 6 weeks before Christmas so I had no hope of my Yuletide Wrapping Gene kicking in, but, since I needed to send it through the mail, I couldn't fall back on the old "buy a pretty bag and stuff tissue paper on top" trick that usually works for me. I walked out of the post office trying to figure out where, logically, one would go for postal materials if not the post office. Where could they be hiding this stuff? And why do they always seem to be hiding things in the first place?
Finding the brown parcel wrapping paper was actually the easiest part. The bookstore next to the post office carries a limited selection of wrapping paper, including the postal kind (being next to the post office, I guess they got wind of the lack of postal materials at said post office and figured they could make a killing). But nowhere could I find a box the right size, so defeated, I returned home to rummage through old boxes there.
When I finally did locate an old Macy's box that was (almost) the right size, I still had the wrapping job to do. Let me just say again that I have a serious tape/finger issue to work through, and let it go at that. When the box was wrapped, I was, indeed, sweating.
Now horrendously late for work, I returned to the post office and handed over the box. In my bad French I negotiated the sending of the package and after handing over a few francs, left it behind with the rather surly cashier. What is it about working at the post office that makes people so grouchy? It's a worldwide phenomenon. Is it something in the stamp glue?
Walking down the street towards the tram I had a sudden Flash of French (otherwise known as Oops, I Did it Again). This is defined as the moment, anywhere from 10 to 30 minutes after a conversation in French, when I suddenly translate that one word that makes the whole exchange clear. More often than not, the Flash of French ends with me groaning and shaking my head.
This time was no exception as I realized I'd mistakenly sent the package by surface instead of by air, so it was likely to show up in the states sometime in January, if all the stars were aligned and nobody in France went on strike. And if you think that's a likely scenario, we need to sit down and chat.
- KNP Nov 10, '00
Epilogue: The package arrived in the US last week, about 6 weeks after I sent it. A package sent by air takes about 7 days door to door. The lesson here should be obvious.
