La Carte Bleu Part I: The Missing Key

Tuesday I was so proud of myself for setting up my French bank account -- I was one step closer to assimilating, to being a little more French. I just needed the carte bleu.

The banker promised it would come in the mail. He promised it would come quickly.

Wednesday I figured it was too early – there’s no way a large French institution would move quick enough to mail and deliver a card in 24 hours.

Thursday I was hopeful. I had to restrain myself from waiting by the mailbox for the postman to deliver the card, and – for better or worse – the battle for my friends’ luggage kept me distracted. When the Air France man called for directions, I told him we’d meet him at the end of the driveway (because otherwise he most certainly would have missed it) and figured I’d check the mailbox while we were there. I grabbed Chrissy from her perch on the "nappy chairs" and on our way out the door checked the little bowl that always contains the mailbox key. It wasn’t there.

I shrugged. Must be in one of its other spots, I suppose.

We retrieved the luggage and in the excitement that followed – including a long evening of rosé, champagne, tequila, more wine, a hot tub and Caribbean cigars – I almost forgot all about the carte bleu.

Friday morning, I knew it had arrived. I just needed the mailbox key.

I checked the cabinet in the dining room. Sometimes it’s there, but not this time. I checked the drawer in the desk, the only remaining logical location. Empty. I tore the entire house apart. Nothing.

My grandfather happened to call. “Papa,” I asked in my sweetest possible voice, “have you seen the mailbox key?” He was the last guest at the Chêne en Croix.

“No, and no one seems to know where it is. I asked everyone, the whole family. But if you figure out how to open it, I think I have a couple birthday cards in there.”

“I know you do.”

“You’re best bet at this point is probably to wait by the mailbox. The postman usually comes becomes between 9 and 11.”

Sweet.

A cold, frustrating panic set in and desperation took over. I marched up the long, rugged driveway and faced my adversary: Can I break the mailbox open? I tugged gently at its side, at the door. Far too strong for a sissy girl like me. Plus, what if breaking into a mailbox is illegal? What would I tell the family? What if the card’s not even in there?

I peered into the narrow slot: A couple old copies of Le Monde, something that looked like a greeting card, and – wait – Could it be? Yes! An envelope with BNP on the corner!

If only I had the key.