My Postman NEVER Rings Twice

Don’t worry, nothing even remotely metaphorical is intended in the title of this post. Mr. Cain’s novel of a similar name is of interest only in the sense that there is some speculation that the reference to the postman may have something to do with awaiting the return of a submitted manuscript and the accompanying anxiety born of the recipient’s anticipation. No, I rather mean this literally and I too feel a certain anxiety when it comes to the mail. Receiving the “Poste” as it is referred to here in France is something of a multi-phased process with a lot of phone calls and third party intervention. Again, perhaps I am being a bit hasty in referring to La Poste in this manner. Truthfully, those items forwarded to us from the U.S. via the US Postal service and in turn La Poste here in France seem to find their mark with remarkable accuracy and a fair bit of haste. And my “postman” doesn’t ring at all if he has a special delivery. He simply pulls into my drive way and begins to apply liberal force to his car horn. With cigarette in hand, he never leaves the confines of his little yellow van, so our exchanges are always courteous and brief.

The real challenge lies with those items that require express delivery. Here in France, it would seem that those items lovingly tracked by the good folks at UPS, FedEx and DHL are subcontracted once they land here in France. It would seem that any Joe with a large white van and a little extra time on his hands is eligible for the contract, so once the item is on the ground it nearly instantaneously goes MIA. The process must work, for I have never lost a piece of mail, but I can’t shake the picture I have in my head of a bunch of fellas sitting around the air freight hanger while packages are thrown this way and that in a confusing bidding war with all the frenetic energy of the trading floor at the New York Stock Exchange. I picture lines of white vans and men in varying state of intoxication, throwing potentially breakable items into their vehicles with a cigarette glued to their lower lip. I suppose it must be more organized than this, but who knows. Some questions are better left unanswered.

At this point though, it is important to note that my address here in France is purely fictional. There aren’t any numbers at all except for the equivalent of a zip code which would explain why almost without fail, the delivery driver finds himself in the neighboring town without a clue what to do next. I think my address reads something like “The Big House located at New Castle”. I can’t be for sure since translations aren’t often literal, but I think I am probably close. And as if that isn’t clear enough, the “New Castle” that I presume the address is referring to is actually in a different postal code. Oh, I could spit on the building from my kitchen, but somehow it (and quite logically so) is within the postal district of a town closer than the one we are affiliated with. And so it goes, with every quasi-important piece of mail sent in my general direction.

The natural consequence of all of this, of course, is that at some point I receive a frantic call from the delivery driver wondering where in the hell he is and how to get to my house. Then ensues a rather unfortunate exchange about my linguistic ineptitude and the inevitable enlistment of third parties to help us along. The best case scenario is that the driver’s English is at least on par with my French and we can grunt and stutter our way to a meeting point. This is usually the most identifiable landmark adjacent to the driver’s current location. When I arrive, it is never hard to sort out who the delivery guy is, even in the busiest parking lot. They are usually sitting in the cab of their giant white van with a cigarette in one hand and my tattered and mildly sweaty letter in the other. Ordinarily this makes for nothing more than a comical inconvenience, however, when you are awaiting delivery of a check in an amount equivalent to the majority of your net worth or I suppose to a lesser extent a manuscript of the next great American novel, it has a way of ruffling your feathers a bit.

All is well that ends well I suppose, and since the delivery record is still beyond reproach I guess I will stifle my complaints and move on with life. For now, if you need to send me a mailing, just address it to: Jack Butler at some house in France next to some other house. Include the zip code and my phone number and we should be golden. Take care and happy mailing. R.