Grr...

I've had one of those "God-it's-so-frustrating-living-in-a-foreign-country" kind of days.

Incident #1: I got dumped by my yoga instructor first thing this morning (which is actually mid-afternoon for me, thanks to working nights). Because of my work hours, I couldn't actually make any scheduled classes at the local yoga studio so I hired a private instructor. I was paying him a boat-load of money to meet with me for 1 hour a day, three days a week. After three classes, he decided that it just wasn't all that convenient for him, and that he really didn't like missing his afternoon nap. He was firing me as a client. Boo!

Incident #2: Yesterday afternoon, I received a phone call from the local post office telling me that I had a package, could I please come down after 9:30 am today and collect it. I needed to speak to a man named Danayam. No problem. I went to yoga, got dumped, headed for the post office. When I arrived at the post office, I was told to go around back to collect my package. I don't want to scare anyone away from sending anything to India, because the system actually works, but what I witnessed was the most frightening thing ever. Stacks and stacks and stacks and bags and bags and bags of mail dumped into the middle of a large table with three skinny scruffy little men in sarongs sitting around hand sorting things into random piles. There was mail on the floor, on chairs, in cubbies, in boxes... utter chaos, just like the rest of India. Anyway, so I had gone around back to the package-place, only to be sent back around front to find the mysterious Danayam. Danayam was not in the office. Danayam would not be back today. Evidently this Danayam is the keeper of my packages and my packages only, because when he was called on his cell phone, no one used my name, only the lovely monniker "Madame", as in "Madame is here for her package." And he knew who I was and where my package had been sent. Shockingly, it had been forwarded on to the address that was on the package. Now there is a novel idea. However, if they were going to send it on to the address on the package anyway, why in the hell did they call me and tell me to come down to the post office to pick it up? It must have been one of those "Let's mess with the white girl" things. They do happen.

Incident #3: Shortly after my experience at the post office, I receive a phone call from reception at my office. I had a package. Unbelievable. My package had made its way from the post office to the address on the box. Funny how that works. "Great!" I said, "I'm not in the office today, I'll pick it up later." Then the receptionist asked me the oddest question. "What do you want us to do with it?" Evidently, in the history of the entire company, this was the first time they had ever received a package or piece of mail. The mail room had been completely unused up until this point. I politely suggested the unused mailroom, what the heck - give those boys something to do, until I was able to get around to pick it up. She said ok, and we hung up the phone. No worries, easy right? Welllllll... later on I decided to stop by and pick up my package from the office. My company has two buildings in this large business park 'campus' kind-of thing. I work in building A. My desk is in building A, right around the corner from the never-before-used mailroom in building A. The receptionist that called me was also in building A, so I assumed that they would send the package to the mailroom in building A. No. No no no. Of course not. They sent the package across the campus to the mailroom in building B. So after a ten minute conversation with the under-worked mail boy in building A, we finally determined that my package had indeed been sent to building B. I went to building B. I went to the mailroom window to request my package, knowing full well that I only had 10 minutes to collect my package and make it down to the basement to catch transport home, which only leaves every 30 minutes. If I missed this round, I'd be stuck sitting at the office with my package for another half an hour. I explained this very carefully to the woman in the mailroom. She nodded and smiled and head waggled all while talking on her cell phone for the next 15 minutes, then she handed me my package that was sitting next to her the whole time. I missed transport. I sat in the hot, un-airconditioned basement for 30 minutes waiting for the next round to take me home.

Incident #4: The ride home in transport was uneventful. Never mind that no one offered to help me load the medium sized, heavy box along with a backpack and two bags of books that I was struggling with, into the car. I managed. No big deal. I was used to this day going badly. When I got home, I got out of transport and tried to get my things out of the back of the hatchback. I walked around the back of the car, and for some reason, without looking behind him, the driver threw the car into reverse and began to back up.. over me. I started backpedaling as fast as I could and beating on the back window of the car. Only then, did he actually check his rear-view mirror to see if anything was behind him. Seeing my panicked face did not immediately stop him. It was the other person in the car literally slapping him across the back of the head and yelling at him that got him to stop. I had already jumped clear at this point, realizing he just wasn't going to stop. When he stopped I stepped to the back of the car, opened the hatchback, removed the backpack and two bags of books and put them on the side of the road. As I stepped back behind the car for the second time, to get the box out of the back, the idiot starts to back up AGAIN. If I could have reached him to smack him myself, I would have. But the other passenger managed it for me. He stopped. I got the box. I went home.

It was all worth it for the contents of the box. Care packages from Mom are always good. I was expecting most of the contents, since I'd asked for them... but she always manages to sneak some little cool surprise in there too. This time it was a beautiful Japanese style cast-iron teapot and yummy gourmet tea. I'm sitting here finishing the last of a pot while writing this. Thanks, Mom! You turned an otherwise yucky day around.