There's nothing like getting a care package. Since a hug from my besties is an ocean away, it's nice to get some things that I've really been craving (black beans, enchilada sauce, green chilis) and some just-because items. But it's always an adventure when I get the notice that I have a package. My mailbox is only big enough for envelopes, so anything that's in a box shape is saved for me at the post office. If it's a small enough/light enough package, I can just go to my neighborhood post office, but if it's big or heavy I have to take the metro to the town center, switch lines and go behind the Central Bus Station. Last week I got a notification that I had a package at the main post office. Because of my crazy schedule last week, the first day that I was available to go was Friday. One of my new friends from The Well agreed to go with me in an effort to stay awake and fight jet lag. She had some issues with her visa application and had arrived that day. We set off in the rain for the metro and made it through all the crowds, the line switch and finding the post office (which I had seen on a map, but never in person) while avoiding the hordes of snails that were enjoying the rain. I confidently walked up to the wrong window, realized my mistake and looked around until I saw the window with the word Posht over it. I handed the woman my notice and my Bulgarian ID and she pointed out that there was a part that I needed to fill out and sign on the notice. She then accepted my 4 leva, gave the paperwork to the woman at the next desk and ignored me. I moved over to the window in front of the second woman, who gave me a receipt and said something to me. I understood that she said something about a number in the 30s. I asked where I was supposed to go and she repeated something that I didn't quite catch. The man who was waiting beside me told me I needed to go to number 30 for my package. He pointed to a corner of the room, so my friend and I walked over to the corner. On a piece of paper taped to the door there was an arrow and 30-39 typed on the paper. So we went through the door and walked down a dark hallway to the back of the post office, where we found the window for number 30. The woman there asked for my name, found it in her book and as I signed next to the record of my package she disappeared into the depths of the post office. When she handed me the box, I realized that I probably should have grabbed a bag to put the box in, since it was pretty heavy. After an hour of metro-ing and walking I made it home and delighted in my goodies. It was totally worth the sore arms! |
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Elisabeth CarySharing the love of Christ to make known the hope of Christ in Bulgaria. Archives
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