And now... the rest of the story.

This morning I made the trek back downtown to make my second attempt at picking up the package my mother had sent me. Now familiar with the building, I walked straight upstairs and underneath the rattling conveyor belts to the back corner cage-- which, I have now learned, is where they send the international packages that come with insurance. My friends were, of course, ecstatic to see me, and we spent a few minutes in pleasant chit-chat before getting down to the business at hand. Forms were filled out in quadruplicate, notes were made, my passport was examined again, and finally a whole sheaf of papers, supposedly all relating to my (by now surely infamous) package, was sent upstairs to some unknown dark cranny of an office. The ladies made tea and we settled in for what promised to be a not-insignificant amount of time. Conversation moved from the weather to how much I like this city to their children-- at this point I found out that the older daughter of one of the women is named Sarah, which explains at least part of the instant liking they took to me. Names are very important here. About half an hour later, the go-fer man returned with a few sheets of official-looking and heavily-scribbled-upon forms. A few minutes scrutiny of these forms revealed that the total tariff due on my package had been reduced to a fifth of the originally quoted price. An absolutely unlooked-for blessing. This is completely unheard of. People will be talking about this for years. I'm happy, my friends are happy (it's due entirely to their efforts that this drastic cut in duties has been obtained), a couple other people wander into the cage and they're happy too. We all laugh and talk for a few more minutes, and then I am allowed to help as the day's newly arrived packages are opened and inspected and tagged and reported upon. Nothing of very great interest, except for the disgusting tar-like substance they use to reseal the opened boxes. On Tuesday I had almost tripped over a bucket full of the stuff. It looks at least slightly toxic and quite possibly lethal. I'm still cleaning it out from underneath my fingernails.

But back to the warehouse---- At this point we are still waiting for the final mysterious paperwork to descend from the exalted heights of the upper-floor offices. To pass the time, one of the women helps me read through a couple of the forms lying scattered around her desk. I'm extremely pleased with the number of words I recognize, small though it is. This is definitely a vocabulary situation I have not yet encountered in lessons.

Finally the required forms arrive, and I'm handed the slip of paper I must take to the cashier in the next building over. The insured-packages-cage go-fer will carry my package for me. Goodbyes ensue, and about five minutes later we've all ma'salaamed each other for the last time. At last I negotiate my way through the lines and the windows and pay my money. The package is mine. I have socks now. A new sweater. A wonderfully warm afghan. And, of course, two very important tubes of cork grease.