So for anyone who is wondering “Do I look like a stupid American abroad? Can people tell I’m out of place?” the answer is almost always yes. It’s always nice when someone approaches me and just begins speaking Italian, only to realize they need to talk much slower because I’m astronomically confused. However, I digress. Let me tell you about my most difficult and trying moment since I’ve arrived in this country.
My mother sent me a package, sounds simple enough right? Wrong. She had mailed the package on January 30. It arrived into a lovely customs facility on February 4. Let’s keep in mind that I had been checking my school mailbox nearly every day, expecting this package. Well by the end of this week I had just about had enough, waiting almost 3 weeks was driving me insane. I was told over and over it was probably stopped in customs, that I would need to pay a fine and all this nonsense.
Let me give you some context. This package contained my birth control (no I don’t care that I just told you that, think what you want), a credit card, and other small things like extra socks etc. I am now three weeks behind on my pill and will possibly have to deal with a lost credit card.
So I’m concerned, fed up and exhausted of thinking about where it could possibly be. I hadn’t gotten a notice from customs telling me I needed to pay a fine to release it, or provide my passport or anything. I just was at a loss for what to do.
Turns out, as I am venting about it to Paulo and Guillaume (my supervisors at work) they tell me that if it was sent through USPS (which it was) it would take longer. Generally speaking Italian mail may be delivered 2-3 times a week, and if they arrive at your residence and no one is there to receive the package, they will simply take it back to the sorting facility and it will sit there until the world ends because no one informs you that they stopped by.
I woke up early Friday morning to find my package. Guillaume had helped me locate the correct sorting facility for my district and had given me instructions on how to get there. Well, when I got there I took a number and waited close to an hour to be called. Upon hearing my number I attempted to tell the nice man at the counter what the problem was, to which he shook his head, unable to understand my broken Italian (I may be able to speak the language well enough but I don’t know enough to sort out an international mailing problem ok?!). So he sent me to a younger looking guy who also couldn’t really understand anything I was saying. He took my tracking number and returned with: “It no here, your package is at next door.”
I headed to the sorting facility next door and passed a group of people who had also seemed to be waiting all morning but I was going to be late to work, so I put on my “I’m completely perplexed” face and move forward. I stepped into the main office and grabbed the mans attention as he finished up with someone else. I very nicely asked him if he spoke English, to which he replied “a little” which was more than I had gotten from anyone else. By this point, I had constructed enough sentences in Italian to convey my issue, still not perfect but he understood. He then took me to the back of the sorting facility, really exclusive stuff guys. I then stood there for the next hour and 15 minutes while he located my package. That moment when he got off the elevator with the worlds tiniest box labeled with my name, was the happiest moment of my life. I signed for it and then threw my arms open to embrace him for being so kind and helpful. I was being the overly excited, emotionally unguarded American that everyone thinks we are. He gave me a look and an uncomfortable chuckle but nonetheless let me approach him and give him a good squeeze. I even rocked side to side a little, because that makes happy hugs even happier.
I bounded to work with the renewed optimism and vigor for life that only a newborn baby fox can have.
My mother sent me a package, sounds simple enough right? Wrong. She had mailed the package on January 30. It arrived into a lovely customs facility on February 4. Let’s keep in mind that I had been checking my school mailbox nearly every day, expecting this package. Well by the end of this week I had just about had enough, waiting almost 3 weeks was driving me insane. I was told over and over it was probably stopped in customs, that I would need to pay a fine and all this nonsense.
Let me give you some context. This package contained my birth control (no I don’t care that I just told you that, think what you want), a credit card, and other small things like extra socks etc. I am now three weeks behind on my pill and will possibly have to deal with a lost credit card.
So I’m concerned, fed up and exhausted of thinking about where it could possibly be. I hadn’t gotten a notice from customs telling me I needed to pay a fine to release it, or provide my passport or anything. I just was at a loss for what to do.
Turns out, as I am venting about it to Paulo and Guillaume (my supervisors at work) they tell me that if it was sent through USPS (which it was) it would take longer. Generally speaking Italian mail may be delivered 2-3 times a week, and if they arrive at your residence and no one is there to receive the package, they will simply take it back to the sorting facility and it will sit there until the world ends because no one informs you that they stopped by.
I woke up early Friday morning to find my package. Guillaume had helped me locate the correct sorting facility for my district and had given me instructions on how to get there. Well, when I got there I took a number and waited close to an hour to be called. Upon hearing my number I attempted to tell the nice man at the counter what the problem was, to which he shook his head, unable to understand my broken Italian (I may be able to speak the language well enough but I don’t know enough to sort out an international mailing problem ok?!). So he sent me to a younger looking guy who also couldn’t really understand anything I was saying. He took my tracking number and returned with: “It no here, your package is at next door.”
I headed to the sorting facility next door and passed a group of people who had also seemed to be waiting all morning but I was going to be late to work, so I put on my “I’m completely perplexed” face and move forward. I stepped into the main office and grabbed the mans attention as he finished up with someone else. I very nicely asked him if he spoke English, to which he replied “a little” which was more than I had gotten from anyone else. By this point, I had constructed enough sentences in Italian to convey my issue, still not perfect but he understood. He then took me to the back of the sorting facility, really exclusive stuff guys. I then stood there for the next hour and 15 minutes while he located my package. That moment when he got off the elevator with the worlds tiniest box labeled with my name, was the happiest moment of my life. I signed for it and then threw my arms open to embrace him for being so kind and helpful. I was being the overly excited, emotionally unguarded American that everyone thinks we are. He gave me a look and an uncomfortable chuckle but nonetheless let me approach him and give him a good squeeze. I even rocked side to side a little, because that makes happy hugs even happier.
I bounded to work with the renewed optimism and vigor for life that only a newborn baby fox can have.