Paris_ The Collected Traveler - Barrie Kerper [16]
Okay, at least I wasn’t going crazy. Inside the industrial park, I identified the Chronoposte terminal by the scores of yellow and blue delivery vans parked outside its loading dock. Less obvious was how to access the building, which seemed to admit only trucks. I walked around it, finding no entry door. Finally, passing a pollution-smeared office window behind which were living human beings, I gestured wildly. A man opened the window and let me in on the secret entry.
I found myself in the selfsame office, and wearily showed the gentleman who had guided me in my by now rumpled Chronoposte letter. A stern lady sat imperviously at a computer behind him. After scanning my letter, he showed it to her. They exchanged significant looks. “Where do you live?” he asked me.
I gestured at the address clearly visible on my letter and added it was just by Parc Monceau. Now eyebrows were raised and a slight smile played around his lips. Even the stern woman seemed on the point of snickering. Just what was so funny?
After checking a list, on which I was sure I saw my address, he gave me the explanation. On the previous Friday—the day my delivery was due—the driver had simply aborted his run, stealing the delivery truck with all its contents. It had not been recovered. My delivery had fallen victim to a disgruntled postal worker! It was so absurd that I had to laugh. We all shook our heads. They advised me to call France Télécom and report what had happened, and request another shipment.
I was back in my car headed toward home before I wondered why this information could not have been relayed in the original letter, saving everyone involved—especially me—a lot of time and hassle. There must have been some sort of weird face-saving involved. Would that this were the end of my story.
I duly reported to France Télécom. Another delivery was scheduled and not delivered. I think you’ll have to agree that at this point we must invoke déjà vu, in all its corny glory. Just rewind the tape back to the beginning and replay it up to where I’m at the Chronoposte depot, minus, of course, the address confusion. By now I’m feeling like a regular.
In the office, the same man takes my letter. He summons an employee from the non-office side of the place and they head out into the warehouse together. Twenty minutes later they come back, without the package, and begin an explanation of breathtaking complexity. I’m thinking about Occam’s razor when I’m brought up short by a glimmer of recognition in the eye of the office man.
“You’re the lady with the package on the stolen truck, aren’t you? Wait just a minute …” And he disappears for another five minutes, this time reappearing with a tattered box which has obviously been retaped shut using bright yellow and blue post office tape. “We found the truck! Most of the packages on it had been emptied, but yours wasn’t.”
Together we inspected the contents, which seemed to be intact and filled the dimensions of the carton. After a serious discussion on the best route to take, I decided to go with the bird in the hand, in spite of a slight risk of invisible damage. “Just refuse the new shipment when it comes!” my new friend cheerily advised.
Indeed! Refuse to trudge to the post office—or here!—to retrieve it, is more like it, I reflected as I navigated back to my car, clutching my precious if tattered cargo.
That evening, Denis asked me for the latest update on the arrival of the modem. I gestured at the dog-eared box on the floor, bearing its layers of blue and yellow tape like bandages over war wounds. “Let me tell you a story,” I began.
“Whenever I travel to Europe I’m astounded by the beauty you can find by simply walking down the street. The basalt blocks in Rome, the cobblestones in Aix-en-Provence … the roads themselves are perfectly laid puzzles for all to experience. In Paris, the roads wind and the buildings curve, soar, and expand. Everything feels a bit romantic and magical. The sign for