Some Unexpected Mail Arrives
Today I received the dreaded recommandée. Not dreaded in the preemptive sense, because I never remotely expected to receive one. But as soon as I realized what this little slip left in my mailbox inviting me to come down to the post office, you can bet your bottom euro my lizard brain went straight into a state of pure, adulterated panic. What is a recommandée? Simply put, it's a piece of mail for which you have to sign, triggering the creation of a legally valid read receipt that the sender can use to haul your ass into court or some other unpleasant administrative hell if he should feel so inclined.
They're commonly used for all sorts of mundane admin for which you might need legal proof of an adversary professional associate having received a document. I sent one to my last landlord a few months ago to let him know I was terminating the lease when I was moving. They're widely used for all sorts of things like that, and since it's France (yay socialism!) the whole shebang is conveniently offered by the postal service for a few bucks. But, and I cannot stress this enough, if you have no reason to be expecting one, they are frightening.
Lizard brain starts racing. Job problems? No, they would accost me at the office. Housing? Unlikely, landlord is chill as heck (shouts out C., you a real one). Taxes? Hmmmm I haven't filed yet, but I'm not sure le fisc even has my new address. Immigration?!?! That would be a very high-stakes yikes indeed, but I was just at the préfecture a couple of weeks ago, and why would they waste good lucre on a recommandée when an email would suffice? Might there be whole other organs of administrative compliance that I had unwittingly transgressed, being ignorant of their very existence??
Quick, think! Maybe I can just forget it. If I never pick it up, I can always say it just didn't reach me. After all, there are legends of Americans who in the early aughts would spend many years here on expired tourist visas just... vibing? Perhaps I could follow in their spiritual wake? Alas, the present author is too neurotic to make it through the next 30 minutes without racing to pick it up and discover what terrible fate awaits him. Shoes, coat, ball cap to keep brain firmly inside of skull, all thrown together as I rush out of the apartment to walk the longest block of my life. This must be what it felt like in The Green Mile, I reflect.
There's a trio of city cops hanging out at the crosswalk on the avenue. Normally I'd signal my status as one of their fellow countrymen by jaywalking under their nose, but not today. Over the last 75 meters of pavement, I've been reflecting on every rule and regulation I've ever violated. The moins de 26 ans tickets and entry fees to which I've permitted myself beyond my 26th, and yes, I admit, even subsequent birthdays. The mysteriously expensive granola bars at Monoprix that I have occasionally and mistakenly passed by the self-checkout scanner too quickly for them to register. Come to think of it, I am kind of a terrible person. Before I know it, the light has changed and I'm arriving at La Poste. If only Paris weren't so damn walkable, and with such an excellent, evenly distributed network of post offices, I might have had time to pull myself together. Zut. I go inside.
It's quiet. I pass my sentence over the counter, contemplating the indignity of being conscripted as an active participant in my downfall. This is so much infinitely worse than getting mauled by a tiger in a disastrous hunt with your clan of prehistoric homies, or valiantly being bayonetted by one of the kaiser's infantrymen in the cold, wet Alsatian mud. Somewhere, Neal Cassady is shaking his head. Why go along with it, man?
The QR code on the slip doesn't work. The two guys working the counter confer. Suddenly, a few decades spent in a post office, drab and grey yes, but basked in the full glorious light of the citizen Who Has Nothing To Hide, No-one to Fear, didn't seem so bad. Like in Bienvenue Chez les Ch'tis. Just a nice, simple life, with a wife who is wildly out of your league. How I envied these men and the predictable, legible rapport I imagined they must have with Big Man.
Ah, to live the good, simple, and honest life of a facteur.
One of them tries entering the code manually a couple of times, but it's missing a digit. Finally, he goes off to find my fate in the store room: signed, sealed, delivered. Returning with a small package some moments later, I overhear him say to his confrere, c'est déjà payé alors.
Huh?
He hands it over. I don't need to sign. It's not even a proper recommendée. It's a little doodad I'd ordered from China, a neato little adaptor that lets you plug an appliance into a bulb socket instead of an electrical outlet, allowing you to turn it on and off with a light switch.
For the sum of €2.79, including shipping, and apparently, customs, this little guy had traveled to me over untold thousands of kilometers, crossing seven timezones, and neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night kept him from arriving in just 11 days, about three weeks in advance of what Evil Corp. had told me to expect.
I double over laughing, explaining to the postal guys how I'd been panicking. They smile kindly as I turn to the door, a bit lighter in my step. I would live to fight another day. Returning to my apartment, the tedious emails I'd been putting off all day prior to this unexpected entr'acte rush back into view. I plug in my new gizmo and, at the flip of a switch, buttery 2700 kelvin light unspools softly from my little wooden lamp, bathing the apartment. The days are getting longer, but it's not a moment too soon; dusk approaches.
I open my laptop to see what I've missed. There's still half an hour left in the workday; I might finish the NYT crossword yet.
