Ah, here I am… My first day of summer vacation, bright sun, blue sky, a warm gentle breeze. Wait, that’s some chick on a magazine cover. I’m the one standing in a line of 15+ people in a tiny dilapidated building with no air conditioning, which somehow serves as a post office for the city of Vincennes in France.

There are no computers, none of the self-service machines work, and there are only two unhappy employees glaring from beneath dripping brows. The room is so small that strangers occasionally brush their sweaty bodies against me. A tall African guy touches my derriere more than once. I doubt it’s a complete accident.

Along with my French residency permit and my husband’s identification, I’m gripping a yellow piece of paper that clearly states that I can pick up my package Monday, July 3, 2006 after 11:00 am. So, here I am at 11:07.

By the time I get to the front of the line it’s 11:40. I have all the required papers, which in itself is a miracle since it can be tricky to pick up a package in France. However, there is no package. It apparently never came back from the truck Saturday. The postal worker takes my number and says she’ll call me when it comes in.

I’m excessively annoyed. The postal system in France is a disaster. Not only is it painfully slow, but it’s completely incompetent. We never received a majority of the mail that we put on hold while we were on vacation. Months after we got back from our trip to the US our mail was still dribbling in with handwritten apology notes from our post woman saying that they had just “found� some more of our mail.

Tragically, I’m missing several copies of my highly treasured Prevention magazine, of which the company has sent several copies of the same lost issues at my request. A package sent from within France arrived 2 months late and was completely mutilated. Another package that was supposed to arrive within 4-6 weeks ended up taking nearly 3 months. Recently in the news there was a report of a postcard arriving in France that was sent 96 years ago!

I don’t really have 96 years to kill right now.

What has happened several times is that it seemed I was actually home at the time of attempted delivery, but no one knocked. Other times, I will go to pick up the package and they simply can’t find it, or they’re not sure if the slip I have is for a package I already got or one that is on a truck somewhere.

If French was my first language I would have probably gone officially postal by now. However, I have a thing against sounding irate and using incorrect grammar at the same time. Also, it seems pointless to complain.

So, I say thank you and return home. Several hours later someone from the post office actually calls me, and I’m pretty sure she said that my package was in. So, I head down to the post office, wait in line for another 20 minutes, and finally it’s my turn. There’s even a slight twinge of excitement and expectation, although I know the package is for my husband.

Perhaps torturing people works out for the best after all. Maybe all the suffering and dehydration is worth that little thrill of accomplishment that you get when-

Nah, it’s definitely not worth it.