La Poste est Pourri

I know I've already complained about the French post office, but it continues to baffle and infuriate me so I'm going to keep on blogging about it.

I hate the French post office. Like I mentioned before, the only day I can really make it to La Poste before closing is on Saturdays. And on Saturdays it closes at noon, so if I stop by around 11:30 (which is usually the earliest I can be bothered to leave the apartment on a Saturday) I'll find myself in a long line that doubles up on itself in the lobby and nearly spills out the door.

There are 5 guichets, or windows, plus an extra one for special people; the handicapped (properly I.D.ed, of course), the pregnant, and the smug privileged who have bought a special pass I haven't quite figured out yet.

Today I woke up relatively early and decided to jump on the opportunity to go to the post office and beat the late morning rush. While David and Oliver continued to snooze, I skipped my shower, pulled on some clothes, grabbed my ipod, passport, and delivery slip, and clambered onto the street.

It was my second trip to the post office in 24 hours. Yesterday we managed to get home by 6:45, so I jumped out of the car and scrambled to La Poste clutching two delivery slips we'd received during the week. I waited in the usual agonizing queue, then had the back luck of getting the hostile guichière (it's a shame we don't have a word in English for the person who works behind a window).

I've lived in Levallois-Perret long enough to know our local post office guichières by temperament. There's Refreshingly Patient, Ready to Go Home (and therefore in a hurry and more flexible with the paperwork), Grumpy, and Hostile. Unfortunately for me, I see Hostile a lot more often than Refreshingly Patient.

So I jammed my two scraps of paper under the window and held my breath. He glanced at my passport, then waved one of the slips at me. This paper says Dave Basson. I said oui, he is my husband. He shook his head, it didn't matter. The paper says Dave Basson. Dave Basson must authorize the release of the package to me.

I regrettably took the slip back and sulked over my inability to say "Just wait a minute while I forge his signature because we both know that's what's going to happen anyway".

So today, today when I rolled out of bed early, I was determined to pop in and out of the post office and still have enough morning left to run some errands before David fully woke up. I forged the delivery slip and trotted down the street with a mission.

And what do you know, the queue wrapped around the lobby and almost out the door. It seems that the post office compensates for slow early morning traffic by only opening 3 guichets. Just to make sure the line still almost goes out the door.

I got in line, once again blessing my ipod, and watched the minutes on the big yellow La Poste clock tick by while the queue did not move one iota. In typical French fashion, customers have to fill in a sheaf of forms to get anything done at the post office. And, unlike the States, the guichières just stand and grumpily oversee the completion of the forms instead of helping the next person while they wait.

When I got to the front of the line I eyed each of the guichières, mentally weighing which one was going to finish first. The woman who was getting hassled by Hostile looked like she was packing up her purse and getting to leave. I cursed my bad luck again and braced myself. But then the woman found another form in her purse to argue with him about and I was saved.

Finally I was beckoned to the window of Grumpy, which I considered a small victory. He barely glanced at my forgery for Dave Basson and retrieved the package from the back room. I decided to press my luck and asked for postcard stamps to the US as well. He indicated toward some pre-stamped envelopes and told me that I should buy those instead, they cost only 5 centimes more and were a lot faster. I shook my head and said no, just stamps. He looked at me like I was completely stupid. Did I really have to delve into a philosophical discussion about my mailing preferences? Couldn't he just give me the stamps, stupid or not?

I think he was just trying to avoid dragging out the bulky book they keep stamps in. I should change his name to Lazy. Finally he sighed, flipped through the book, and proceeded to tear off 10 stamps at a snail's pace.

I gathered my package, stamps, and purse, said my most courteous "Merci, au revior", and left the dreadful place. As I stepped into the late morning sunlight I turned the box over in my hands and saw the addressee: Chi and Dave Basson.