Le Chêne en Croix is on the tip of one of the many tiny peninsulas that jut out from France to embrace the Mediterranean. We have no street number – or no street, really – just the name of the house and the instructions: “Route du Phare” – or road to the lighthouse. When things are mailed here, it’s mostly a game of crossing fingers and hoping for the best. When I try to set up the internet, they laugh at me: “Oh, it will be very slow.” When I ask friends to pick me up, they suddenly aren’t going out anymore.
So yesterday, we faced a slight dilemma. Alex and I drove to Nice to pick up our guests and found both of them, each flew separate airlines, neither made it to Nice with any luggage. Both Iberia and Delta said, “Oh, we’ll have your bags to you within 20 hours. It’s our policy.” Then I gave them our mailing address. Suddenly the policies changed: “Um, yea,” they said, “we’ll have them sent to you by Friday.” Our guests left Nice with naught but their complimentary toiletry kits – complete with airline-branded tee shirts.
As we drove up the windy hill to the house, Chrissy commented: “Wow, it really is far, huh?”
“You know,” I responded, “It once took me five weeks to receive a package.”
She and Jon didn’t like hearing that much.
But all was not lost. It took several phone calls. It took more than 20 hours. It took some fighting, and It took at 300€ trip to Géant to replace bathing suits, shorts, tees and other necessities, followed by a relaxing evening of wine, tequila, cigars and hot tubs. It took two phone calls to French delivery drivers with jumbled directions. But the luggage arrived.
Jon promptly put all of it on. At once.
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