Mail

One of the endearing things about Beirut is that there are really no street addresses. That is, buildings are not numbered, so written and spoken directions often revolve around landmarks. Add to that the fact that streets may be known by two different names, or by one name with several different spellings, and you start to appreciate the difficulty of sending and receiving mail in Beirut. To circumvent that problem, I and most of the other faculty members get our mail sent to the English department's mailbox at the central Libanpost office downtown. Someone from the school goes to the big Libanpost office every day and fetches the mail for all of us. This works well, except for packages that need to have the recipient pay customs on them. When such packages come in, we get a notice saying that there is a package waiting at Libanpost.

I got one of those happy notices last week, and today set off to find the downtown Libanpost (I'd never been) and pick up my package. It was a beautiful, sunny morning; perfect for a walk. I strolled downtown, past the perpetual construction sites with their cranes and jackhammers, and eventually got to the city center, near the parliament building. After having my bag inspected, I asked one of the rifle-toting guards where I could find Libanpost, and he pointed across the street. Sure enough, there was a huge, modern-looking post office building.

I went inside and gave my package slip to a worker who soon came back carrying an intriguing-looking box wrapped in brown paper. She asked to see my ID, asked for the 5000 lira customs fee (a little over $3), and handed over my package--the first box I'd received here in Beirut (not counting desk copies of course texts). It was fairly heavy, made interesting noises when gently shaken, and had been mailed from Farmington, Maine way back on the 8th of November, over two weeks ago. It was addressed to me in my sister-in-law's neat handwriting, though I noticed my brother's distinctive script on the customs declaration form. I put the box in my bag and headed home.

On the way I stopped to photograph an interesting-looking metal doorway and was immediately approached by a policeman who asked what I was photographing. I tried to explain that I just thought the door was pretty and offered to delete the photo. He shook his head in what I interpreted as a "silly foreign girl!" kind of way and said, "No, don't delete it," and walked off.

Once home I took a picture of the box (along with my customs receipt, complete with pretty Lebanese stamp), and unwrapped it.

Inside was...Halloween candy!!! Oh, happy day! I regretted missing Halloween this year, so these old standbys were welcome sights. And on the back of one of the candy bags, this tidbit: "Each year Americans consume enough candy corn that if laid end-to-end, it would circle the earth 4.25 times." Now if that doesn't make one feel proud to be American, I don't know what will!

All in all, my trip to the post office was a nice reminder that even though my building doesn't have a street number, little tastes of home can still find me here. It's amazing to think that my candy corn started out in Farmington, Maine, flew across an ocean, and is now here, open, on my kitchen table. It makes home and the people who live there seem not so far away. Thanks, guys!