I am noting more often now that, despite my worries and speculations and contingency planning, things tend to work out.
Has it always been like that?
For example: Package delivery here is sometimes an adventure. I haven’t lived in an apartment building of more than four units for a long, long time, so can’t be sure how it works in the U.S. Here, there are any number of delivery services, from La Poste and its associated Chronopost to the random rickety mini-mini-van. (Not to mention the food delivery services, such as Deliveroo.)
So, your package from Amazon.fr, depending on size and weight, may or may not make it directly to your door. Or mailbox. (I had one box sent from the U.S. Priority Express International that was stuffed into my mailbox so vehemently that I had to cut it open and remove half the contents to get it out of the mailbox. But that worked out.) In more than one case early on I got a card in the mailbox, went online and provided delivery instructions, including my phone number, and met the delivery person at the front door. More recently, I discovered by checking my order history on Amazon.fr that a package had been left with a neighbor, M. Chastin, and I had to search out which apartment he was in. In another case, the package was left with the restaurant next door; that was fine, I’m friends with the folks there, who said “pas de tout, c’est normal” when I thanked them for their courtesy.
Then, yesterday, I was walking back from a brief outing to find one of those tiny delivery vans parked at the door, with a young lady who very much hoped that I was M. Chastin, or that at least I lived in that building and might be willing to take delivery of the package. I agreed, since it seems to be how things are done; I gave her my name, apartment number, and my floor, signed my acceptance of the package, and accepted her profuse thanks. And then, it was my turn to wait for M. Chastin to check the delivery news from Amazon, and for me to be anxious about the responsibility I had accepted. That was yesterday.
Today, well, it was rather chilly out, so I was inclined to just stay put, but eventually decided to get out for a walk anyway, bundled up, and headed down the elevator. As the door opened to the lobby . . . there was M. Chastin, with baby in stroller. I said “J’ai votre colis !,” backed into the elevator with them, went back upstairs, grabbed the package (“colis”), and we headed back down the elevator, to his profuse thanks.
So: I agonized over the right thing to do, worried how available I should be, decided I should just go out anyway. . . and things just worked out. No amount of planning or attempted control would have worked out better. Chance worked better.
Has it always been this way?