Last August, my sister told me she was sending me a jacket she bought in Istanbul. She wanted the address of the studio I was renting in Vallauris, France, so she could mail it to me.
After a week of living to the north of the city made famous by Picasso, I received an “avis de passage” in my mailbox. I was certain this was my Istanbul jacket, although the notification did not specify the sender. It only provided the times at which the package would be available. I took the Rue Notre Dame, darted across a busy intersection and headed in the direction of the Picasso Museum, the market square with its “Homme au Mouton” statue by Picasso, and the Café Llorca. From there, I walked down a narrow street toward the Chapelle de la Miséricorde, which serves as an exposition hall for the arts. After several more blocks, I arrived at the post office.
Two long lines had formed at the counters. Each transaction seemed complex. The clerk shuffled books, opened cabinet drawers, checked information on a monitor, and made trips to a back room. Didn’t anyone want just one postage stamp? Many people still use the post office for financial transactions—for savings and checking accounts or to send money back to their families in North Africa. The lines swelled. Women with shopping caddies, others with babies in strollers. Men with large packages in plaid bags. Couples with fresh product from the market. Would I reach the front of the line before the two-hour closing for lunch?
The line inched forward. I was next. No! A buxom woman walked to the front, claiming she had a priority card for a physical infirmity. The others waiting in line rolled their eyes, but no one said anything.
I handed the clerk my notification, explaining it was probably bulky. But she returned with a small taped box, asking that I sign the receipt. This was not my jacket! It was my high-speed internet connection box.
Months passed. I received other notifications, but I did not receive my jacket. The post offices in Turkey and France are reliable. What could have happened? I moved to Juan-les-Pins, and I left the post office a forwarding address. But after nearly eight months, I assumed the jacket had been lost in transit. When my sister asked if she should mail my birthday presents to my new address, I said to wait until I returned to the States. I’d rather not risk losing another jacket.
Now after nearly a year, my sister is back in Istanbul. The other day she left me a cryptic phone message that she had great news. Then she asked if I remembered the “brick joke.” I assumed she referred to a commission for a major project. But I didn’t see the relationship to the joke. Later, she explained she had not called about a commission, but about my jacket. She was staying at her favorite hotel, the Troya. The concierge had a package for her. She had addressed the jacket to me in Vallauris, but she indicated the Hotel Troya in Istanbul as the return address. The concierge kept the package, knowing she would return one day. He would have kept it for forty years if necessary.
“Do you want me to mail it?” she asked.
“Let’s not risk it. I will get it when we both return to the States.”
As for the brick joke, best to ask my sister about that one.
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