Paris_ The Collected Traveler - Barrie Kerper [15]
At last my turn came. I handed over my letter, explaining I was here to collect my Chronoposte delivery which I had missed! The postal service employee gravely took my letter and scanned it. Maintaining a carefully noncommittal expression, he typed the reference number of the delivery into his computer. While I watched anxiously, he scrolled and clicked around through several screens. Finally he looked up. “We don’t have this item,” he informed me. “You must pick it up at the Chronoposte depot.” He shoved the letter at me, his eyes already seeking the next customer.
“Wait!” I implored. “Where is this depot?”
“In the rue Cardinet,” he replied shortly.
“Where in the rue Cardinet?” I asked, relieved that it was in a street which was just a couple of blocks away, but also worried because it is a very long street, stretching through several neighborhoods.
“In the middle,” he replied in dismissal. At which I planted myself squarely in front of his guichet, getting an inkling but no real idea of the extent of the saga that lay before me.
“Is it west or east of where we are now?” I asked, narrowing his choices. “What is the address?” Which, under the circumstances, seemed like a reasonable request.
“I don’t know, madame,” he answered, looking at me with the panic of a cornered animal in his eyes. “Here, I’ll give you their phone number.” And he scribbled some digits on a slip of paper. I looked at the number to make sure I could decipher the French handwriting and went on my way, muttering and cursing under my breath.
I went back home and maneuvered my car out of the interior courtyard into the street, heading toward rue Cardinet. Doing some quick thinking, I headed east, because the part of this street that heads west I go down almost every day and I’d never noticed a Chronoposte building. I drove slowly, eliciting honks and obscene gestures. I was trying to peer at all buildings, because it’s amazing how well hidden a building can be in Paris. After having gone some distance with no sign of Chronoposte, I pulled over to the side of the street and phoned information to get the number for said depot on rue Cardinet. “Ça n’existe pas, madame,” I was told. Not “No such number is listed,” but rather “It doesn’t exist,” setting the tone for the surreal events to follow.
I called the post office where I had just been and explained my situation to the person answering. After a hold of a few minutes, he returned to the phone. “It’s at 147 rue Cardinet, madame,” he informed me politely.
Somewhat mollified, I pulled back into traffic. When I got to the 120s, I seized a parking space. The rest of the search I would do on foot, as I was now in a rather bizarre industrial area near the enormous artery of train tracks that runs down into the Gare du Nord. Perhaps due to the fact that I was now in a warehouse area, the numbers on the street progressed incredibly slowly on the odd-numbered north side, while progressing busily into the 160s already on the more inhabited south side. (Beware if you’re ever in Paris searching for an address: the numbers on either side of the street may bear little or no relation to each other.)
After walking about a half a mile, I came to 143 rue Cardinet. At last, I thought, and walked a little farther past the entrance to a weird, grungy sort of industrial park, which was numbered 145. The next building with a number was 149. Where is 147?! I felt like wailing. I took shelter from the traffic noise in a doorway and redialed