Please, Mister Postman!

Part of living in a new place is learning how to communicate properly. Every town has their own way of doing things. When we lived in Toulouse, it was important to be overly polite when you were in a store, restaurant, or dealing with someone fixing things in your house, almost to the point of self-deprecation. When I lived in Israel, I realized being polite, waiting my turn in line or waiting to get on the bus, was not going to get me anywhere. If I didn’t assert myself, I was going to be trampled by the herd. I would describe Marseille as somewhere in-between Israel and Toulouse.

I have realized you need to be assertive, but you cannot lose your cool too much. And I’ve come to believe you can pretty much say whatever you want as long as you don’t raise your voice and you say it with a witty smile. “What you said is extremely offensive. I am not okay with that, you fucking asshole.” (Well, maybe you have to leave the last part out.)

Either way, practice makes perfect and I’m still practicing. The first step is to stop hesitating, just say something, anything! When someone says something insulting, instead of withdrawing from shock or trying to better the situation by kissing up to the person, the Toulouse way, I now say something back calmly but assertively. This doesn’t mean it gets me anywhere. But, maybe once I refine my technique more, I’ll get results that shine.

Enter Mr.Postman…I was expecting a package and it was pertinent to be at home between certain hours so I could sign for it. The delivery man had tried to deliver the day earlier and since I had been out with the girls, he was obligated to come again. At around 10am, I received a phone call, “Is this Madame Hossam at 22 boulevard Aigle,” asked a man.

“Yes,” I responded, “that’s correct.”

“Madame Hossam with Shanti Yoga Studio?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Let me just confirm. This is Madame Hossam with Shanti Yoga Studio at 22 boulevard Aigle.”

“Yes, that’s correct. Are you here?”

“No, I’m on my way. I just want to make sure this is the correct address.”

“Okay. When are you coming?”

“I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

“Okay,” I said. I went outside and taped one of my business cards to the mailbox as supposedly, they wouldn’t deliver if there wasn’t a name on my door. A woman from the delivering company had explained this to me earlier.

Twenty minutes past and my phone rang again. The man, once again, confirmed all the information and I too confirmed he was at the right place. I went to open the door for him and there he stood, somewhat annoyed it seemed, holding my package.

“Are you Mrs.Hossam with Shanti Yoga Studio,” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied wondering why this was becoming such a big deal.

“Well, I tried to deliver this package yesterday and a lady answered and said this wasn’t Shanti Yoga Studio and this wasn’t the right address.”

“We weren’t here yesterday, sir. So, there is no way someone could have spoken with you.”

“Madame, I came here yesterday and a woman answered and said I had the wrong address. I asked her if this was 22 boulevard Aigle, Shanti Yoga Studio and she told me there was no one living here named Mrs.Hossam and there was no Shanti Yoga.”

“But, no one was here yesterday,” I repeated, “So, unless there was a ghost…” I said light-heartedly.

He began to get frustrated and would not make eye contact with me. He wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead, “Oh, I guess I am crazy then,” he responded sarcastically shaking his head.

I hesitated before responding. “Sir,” I said and waited for him to look at me, “Either you are crazy or I am crazy.”

He was sticking to his story and I was sticking to mine. “Look, Madame, I’m telling you a lady answered this door yesterday and said I had the wrong address. This is 22 boulevard Aigle, right?”

“Yes,” I became exasperated and pointed to the big 22 just on the wall beside the man.

“Well, I came yesterday,” and he repeated his same story again. We weren’t getting anywhere. Then he added, “This business card wasn’t here yesterday, no name was here yesterday.”

“That is correct,“ I said, “I put the card up today for you. However, yesterday no one was home and therefore unless someone lives here of whom I am unaware, it is impossible that you spoke to someone.”

He shook his head, had me sign for the box and left. I tried to come up with some possible explanations.

The first one which is the most far-fetched is that a woman (or a man who can impersonate a woman’s voice) has a key to our house, even though we just changed our locks a month ago, and she saw me and the girls leave. She slipped into our garden and being the prankster she is, she answered our door and told the delivery man he had the wrong place! Then, she calmly locked the door behind her and chuckled to herself as she walked down the street, “Ha ha ha, that was funny!”

Or, my husband, who already works eight days a week, decided to drive 40 minutes from his work to our house while the girls and I were out. And let me add that if this happened, he also would have had to look into his crystal ball to see when the coast was clear. Assuming he did this, we can also assume he was giving some lady a quickie when the bell rang. He turns to his mistress and says, “Hurry! Answer the door and tell them they have the wrong house.” Then, the two of them manage to get out before we get home, the two of them chuckling, “That was a good one! The wrong house! Ha ha ha.”

I must admit there was a moment when I thought to myself, “What if my husband was home with some lady? But, would he be so dumb as to let her answer the door?”

Another simple explanation is he was simply trying to save face. The day before, he went to the wrong address, rang the wrong bell, and spoke to the wrong person without knowing it. He then went back to his company and told them a woman had in fact been home and she said it was the wrong address.

Well, considering the company did in fact call and confirm with me that it was the correct address but I had not been home when my package was delivered, he was forced to try and deliver again the next day to the exact same address and, you guessed it, he felt embarrassed.

This time, however, he went to the right address and realized, “Hey, this isn’t where I went yesterday. Shit!” So, he decided to stick to his original story to save face lest his boss ask how he managed to deliver the package to an address that was supposedly “wrong.”

I also think he called from work and that is why he was over-zealous confirming my name and address one hundred times…people were listening. He wanted his boss and colleagues to know he was not an idiot. He had not gone to the wrong house. See how careful he was confirming everything with the customer?

He realized it would be much better for him to stick to his story so he even reenacted it with me, pretending he had come to my house the day before. We had our bogus interaction that served his purpose because when he returned to work, he was able to report to his boss, “Yeah, it turns out that lady is insane. She told me it was the wrong address yesterday and today said it was the right one, can you believe that?”

Please, Mister Postman!

All Aboard!

All aboaaaaaaard!

Last week, we took the train from Marseille to Toulouse. My husband drove us to the train station and we waited for our train to arrive on its platform. The girls and I were off on a four hour train ride to visit friends. We were so excited. As soon as the train came into view, Claire and Eva began jumping up and down. "Here’s the train!," cried Eva.

"He’s the twain," repeated Claire.

It came to a halt and passengers began flowing out, happy to have arrived. My husband helped all of us climb up the painstakingly steep stairs with our luggage. We began searching for our seats. My friend, Odile, told me to reserve our seats near the children’s compartment, a little open space where children can sit and play. She seemed to have had a very good experience when she visited us with her little boy. So, when I reserved our seats, I made sure we were next to the children’s play area.

We arrived at a little compartment which was already crammed with people, next to the play area as promised. The compartment fit 6 people, a row of three seats facing a row of three other seats. The row in front of us was clad with two lanky teenagers, both barefoot and a tall older man who looked like a less attractive version of Sean Connery, but just as serious.

We had two of the three seats facing these people, the third seat already filled by a very tall woman. Southern French people are typically small but somehow this compartment was crammed with abnormally tall people. Everyone was seated knees pressed against knees in an awkward manner as there was not enough leg room. Luckily, my girls and I managed to fit the three of us into the two seats since Claire is under 4 years old and thus not considered a passenger.

In comparison to the others, we took up little space. The girls legs not long enough to dangle meant the soles of their shoes were pressing against the knees of the passengers across from them. The tall teenage girl and her brother (I presumed it was her brother), were busy texting each other feverishly.

Incredible crying and shouting was coming from the children’s play area. A mother tried to calm her child with no effect. A father tried to calm his child with no results. Everyone in our compartment glanced around nervously. My husband finished putting our luggage on the rack and looked around assessing our sad and intimate seating arrangement, “Why didn’t you choose first class?” He asked as if it was utterly impossible to understand what had gone through my head when I chose second class.

“I wanted to be near the play area,” I explained and then added after some screaming quieted down a bit, “I hope the whole ride isn’t going to be this loud.”

“I’ll see if I can upgrade you to first class. I’m going to go look for one of the train conductors.” He left and the girls and I sat quietly in our seats listening to the screaming children.

“Calm down, calm down,” we heard the mother say to her son behind the thin wall that divided our compartment and the play area.

“Noooooooo!,” the little boy wailed and begun grunting hysterically.

We all glanced at one another with tight nervous smiles. The two teenagers kept texting. I felt relieved at least my girls were, for the time being, acting very well-behaved.

My husband ducked his head back in, “Everything’s taken,” he reported, “but you can upgrade your tickets for your way back, okay? Do that.”

“Okay,” I sighed and said again, “I hope the whole ride isn’t going to be this loud.”

He gave us all kisses and was gone. The train closed all its doors and was slowly off. My girls sat quietly for a while and then Eva got up and said, “I want to go over there and play,” she pointed in the direction of the play area.

“Me too,” said Claire.

I unzipped our big stuffed bag that contained snacks and games and everything else children might need to stay entertained and quiet. I handed her some markers and two coloring books. Eva and Claire happily left our crammed space and joined the screaming children.

I heard Eva ask the mommy, “Why does he have a pacifier?”

“Because he has a pacifier,” the mother replied.

Several minutes later, the little boy poked his head into our compartment. He must have been three years old, dark brown hair sticking up in a naughty way, blue pacifier tight in his mouth and a dirty white blanket in his hand. He dashed off and then mashed his face against a glass partition between the play area and the corridor and screamed out on the top of his lungs.

“Come sit down,” said his mother calmly and unruffled.

He began to bang his head on the glass.

“Calm down, calm down,” said the mother, not raising her voice at all. We could hear him running amok. I listened dutifully, deciding whether it was a safe enough zone to let my children play somewhat unattended and in the presence of a somewhat out of control child.

I heard a man begin talking to his son, ”Here, here. You want a cookie,” and several seconds later, “Here, girls. You want a cookie.”

“Merci,” said Eva.

”Merthi,” said Claire.

Then Eva poked her head in and said with a big smile, “The man over there, he gave us cookies. That’s really nice.”

I dug around our bag and pulled out a bag of pretzels. “Here. Go share these.”

“Okay,” Eva said taking the bag. I heard her say to the man, “Do you want some pretzels?”

“Thank you, sweetie,” said the man and then abruptly, he cried out, “Merlin, sit down! No! No! No! Sit down now or you’ll get a spanking,” then seconds afterward, we all heard, “Smack!” following a little boy crying on the top of his lungs.

“I warned you,” said his father. “I warned you. I told you to sit down. I told you to sit down. Now are you going to listen to Daddy? Are you going to listen?” He went on and on in a booming voice while his son cried.

I glanced around and all of us in the crammed compartment made quick eye contact with raised eyebrows as if assessing the man behind the wall.

About an hour or so passed with the two little boys crying and wailing. The train approached a city called Toulon where it stopped and the woman and her little boy with much ado, got off. I literally had my arm in the air ready to do that ridiculous pumping movement that accompanies the winning, “Yes!” but decided it would’ve been too immature.

I decided to go join the father and his little boy now that the play area was calmer and less crowded. “Hello,” I said inspecting the area. The area was carpeted and littered with crumbs from who knows how many different cakes, cookies, croissants, sandwiches over who knows how many hours, day, weeks, years?

The little boy had wooden blocks and toy planes all over the place. The square area was lined with long narrow yellow cushions that created a border and a place for small children to sit. I sat down against the glass that divided the play area from the corridor. The man had has back against one of the walls, his legs stretched out in front of him. He was in has late thirties, muscular build with kind blue eyes.

“Hello. Yes, yes, sit down. Join us. Much better now, the little boy left. That little boy! The mother refused to discipline him.”

“Yes. It was pretty bad,” I agreed. His little boy was playing with his blocks, a little blond boy with pudgy cheeks who looked around three years old. The man started talking to me, asking questions. “So, you are English? I heard you speaking English to your children.”

I explained I was American and he told me he spoke English because of his work in Toulouse. Our conversations were in French but every so often, he’d throw out an English word like, “Tanks,” (thanks). He started proffering other goodies to the children, cakes and things. He had a huge insulated bag with him. The little boy started tugging on his daddy’s shirt and whining.

“Oh, he must be tired,” I said.

“I’m tired,” said Eva.

“Me too. I tie-wed,” announced Claire.

Eva and Claire both tried to lie down on the narrow cushions, wobbling a little, like cats on a sofa arm that is too small.

“Do you want to lie down,” the man asked his little boy.

The little boy shook his head viciously and then hit his father. His father looked at his son shocked. “Don’t hit Daddy,” he held his hand up high preparing to wack his son, “don’t hit daddy,” he warned again. His little boy hit him again. The man’s hand came down, “Wack, wack, wack!” followed by his son wailing. The girls, both sucking their thumbs stared, wide-eyed at the father.

“Do you girls want to go sit down again”, I offered as an escape route back to our compartment that seemed better and better as time passed.

“No”, they both answered and tried to close their eyes.

The little boy tried to lie down next to the girls and then decided he didn’t want to lie down and he began to play with Claire’s feet.

“No, stop,” whined Claire.

“Stop!” cried the father and then more softly with affection said, “Come lie down on papa, come lie down.” The boy reluctantly left Claire’s feet, climbed onto his daddy and lie his head on his daddy’s chest for 5 seconds. Then he decided to start playing with his blocks.

Two older children entered the play area, a girl and her brother. The girl must have been 9 years old or so, her brother maybe 7. They sat down. The boy picked up a toy plane and began fiddling with it. The girl started doing activities from a little purple magazine. Eva became curious and sat up to watch her. Of course, Claire had to sit up too and soon began playing with the little boy. He began throwing his blocks.

“Stop! Stop!” cried the father.

One block hit Claire hard in the forehead and made a sound. Claire froze still, stunned for a second and then she let out a big wail, her eyes filling and brimming over with tears. ‘Ow-wow wow, ow-wow wow,” she cried over and over.

“Come here,” I opened my arms and she came over to me. I hugged her tightly and while this was happening, the father smacked his son again who was also wailing. It was loud in the play compartment. “Let me see your head, Claire,” she moved her head away from my chest and looked at me. A big blue welt was forming on her forehead.

The man looked over at Claire and said, “Oh! That’s going to leave a bruise,” then he turned to his son and boomed out, “See what you did! You hurt Claire! Look at her head! See what you did!"

The boy stared at Claire and cried loudly. The father continued reprimanding his son. “I’m sorry,” he said to me and then added, “Boys. Boys are like that. They throw things. All boys are like that. I don’t know why.” The man did look like he was sorry. I felt sad Claire had been a victim to a little boy and his natural throwing tendency. The two new children who had joined us stared open-mouthed at the man without blinking once.

An older woman poked her head in looking upset. “Is everything okay,” she asked the two older children. The girl shook her head up and down. The mother gave one stiff look around, holding her glance longer than necessary at the man and then left.

“Do you have any paper,” the man asked the girl. She shook her head.

”I do,” I piped in and pulled out some paper from my big bag.

“Oh, great,” he took the paper and said, “Look kids! Look what I’m going to do!” He held the children’s attention closely. He gave me an endearing look. Then, he began his magic show.

The man told some story about a sailor. He made a boat and then turned it wittily into a shirt. He made a plane and some other objects. The children were spell-bound. All eyes were on the man. He spoke non-stop in his booming voice. Whenever the children were quiet, he’d start to sing in his heavy French accent, “It’s oh, so quiet. Shhhhh. Shhhhh. It’s oh, so quiet. Shhhh Shhhhhh”, filling in every precious quiet space with noise.

“Look what I can do!” he beamed after his magic show was over. He began doing complicated hand balances, with his knees on his elbows.

“Bakasana,” I cried out, a yoga move also known as the crow. The children watched in awe. The older girl tried to do it too and managed pretty well. She was excited.

“Look! Look, now!” said the Cat in the Hat as he balanced on his hands and wrapped his legs around his arms to bring his feet together.

“Bhujapidasana!” I cried out, proud I knew the Sanskrit yoga name. “You’re doing yoga.”

“ Really? Oh, I didn’t know that. I used to put my feet behind my head but now I’m too old,” he said.

Then he stood up and lifted his shirt up to show a slightly unfit stomach. “Watch! Watch!”, everyone became silent. He rolled his stomach like a belly dancer with perfect control, one big wave moving from the top to the bottom.

Claire stood up and lifted her dress, her tiny little body and big tight tummy poking out. “Look,” she said and she did almost the same thing with astonishing precision.

“Wow,” he said and looked at me surprised, “she has good control!”

“Yes, she does,” I answered proudly and then wondered what the passengers, who could only hear us, must be imagining.

The little boy started acting up again, followed by some spankings, some loud wailing, and yet another booming lecture. One minute, the man was warm and kind, the next minute, he’d morph into the wicked father of a scary fairy tale.

A teenage boy poked his head into our play compartment and said, “Could you try and be a little quieter?” The man looked appalled. At first he was so shocked, he sat speechless. Then, he shrugged his shoulders and said with a smile, “Kids. What can we do?” He was totally unaware that he was louder than all the children combined. He had no idea the teenage boy was most likely asking him to be quieter, not the children.

Several apple sauces, candies, and cakes later, the train arrived in Toulouse. We packed up our bags, leaving more crumbs than we had initially encountered, crumbs for the next lucky passengers. “Bye,” we all waved to each other. And we slowly climbed down the stairs onto the platform. As I wheeled our luggage and walked through the train station holding my girls’ hands tightly, all I kept thinking was, “Wow. That will make a great story for my blog.”