This morning, I had a list of errands to accomplish. Earl and I had planned to walk to the nearby village together to accomplish them, but he received an email from UPS that our credit cards, the ones that were stolen and cancelled a month ago, would be delivered sometime today before the end of the day, whenever that is. Perhaps we could have safely assumed it wouldn't be from 12-2, the French lunch time, and gone on our errands then, but instead, he decided to stay at the house and wait for the UPS delivery person.
|View walking toward town|
Change of address at the post office
Find a French doctor who speaks English
Buy some putty
Get keys made
The English library
My first stop was the post office. I wanted to give them our names and let them know we would be at this address through December. Since this place serves as a rental, like an AirBnB most of the time, I needed to let them know we'd be receiving mail here.
The metal door was down over the post office door and two different signs informed visitors that the post office was closed today, except for those who had appointments for Madame xxx. And the other sign said that the post office wouldn't be open until 2:45 on Wednesday.
Now, the regular hours of the post office were on a sign nearby. It's supposed to be open from 9-12 and 1:30-4:30, but it wasn't.
As I was deciphering the sign, the metal door rolled up and an older woman with a cane began to exit. I reached in to help her with the door and the woman behind the counter, Madame xxx rushed over to make sure I understood they were closed. I nodded and pointed at the sign. I'd be back the next day after 2:45.
As I walked away and the door rolled back down, a Frenchman walked in the direction of the post office, a driving cap on his head and his gray beard trimmed to a point.
"C'est fermer?" he asked, it's closed.
"Yes," I told him in French, "today and tomorrow until 2:45." He made a French raspberry sound with a shrug of his shoulders.
That's how I felt. "What can you do?" I'd be back the next day, I laughed to myself.
I had much more luck at the pharmacy filling my prescription and asking about a doctor so Earl can get his prescription refilled.
Then I went to the nearby papeterie or stationary store, where I could get the latest newspapers and magazines if I wanted, but also some office supplies. I needed putty to put up pictures and props on the wall to entertain the children in my English classes. Luckily, she had some.
I took a shot and asked her about where to have a key made.
Mr. Bricolage, she informed me, which is equivalent to a Home Depot and found in many French towns, technically, outside French towns, nearly two miles away, which is a challenge since we don't have a car any more, but we'd figure it out.
The English library was also closed. I didn't even walk up to the door to see when it would be open, but the bakery was open, so score there. I walked home with a raspberry turnover and a cafe eclair.
Since I got back to quickly, Earl figured he'd ride his bike to the hardware store for the keys. I looked up the directions and saw the warning that the store was preparing to close. Yep, it closes for a two-hour lunch.
Can you imagine Home Depot closing for a two-hour lunch? But that's one of the differences we love about France, they have different priorities. It's one of the things we love, and one of the things that frustrates us.
It just takes some getting used to.