An American in Provence

Going to the Post office is always an interesting study in communication.
Me: (pointing at box) "Boite"
Clerk: rapid stream of french.
Me: (to send) "Envoyer"
Clerk: (in french) To some foreign place?
(why do they always assume that? Do I seem foreign to them?!)

Heaven help me if I need to send something with insurance, to get a tracking number, or something out of the ordinary.

Tuesday I received a note saying I had a package, and to come pick it up. I went a little after they opened, got to the window and presented my slip. Oh no, we can't give that to you now, you have to come back after 10 am. Why, the packages are right in that room right there? Just because.
I return after ten and again present my slip. The clerk goes into the back, rummages around for awhile, and returns with a box, asking what my first name is. Megan.
The box was address to Dominque Schmidt, which even in French must be a long cry from Megan Smith. The address was completely different as well- street and number. I'm thinking there was no one by that name at that address, so they searched within a ten block radius to see who has a name even remotely similar. Sigh. And I was so excited about receiving a package too.
La Poste is where we have our bank account too. It is helpful in that it is right across the street and has an ATM. For any actual money transactions though (depositing checks, changing currency, etc) it might as well be non existent. Oh no, you can't change money here. You have to go to the larger post office. Sure, we can deposit that $50 American check for you. But it will cost $40 in fees. Getting my name added to the account was laughable as it took about 2 months to do it. We mistakenly made our first attempt in August, when all private companies are on vacation and the public services only pretend to work. They now have me listed on his account as M. Alain P____ and ith.