Grève at the Post

I am late sending my daughter her birthday present because I didn’t think I would find what I wanted to give her in France so I was waiting until I got home to Geneva. To my surprise I located it, waited for the latest cross stitch magazine to come out, bought the box with the coding and packed it up.

On my last day in France I hurried to the post to get it off to her.

No line…One man behind the counter. Then I saw the sign…

Grève.

Strike.

I love the French. They strike over everything. If it is Monday it’s the nurses, if it’s Thursday it’s the post, etc. I really respect their standing up for their rights.

I wish America did it more.

They seem to say:

“We have no health insurance, okay.”

“Offshore our jobs okay.”

“Non reliable voting machines, okay.”

“Medical costs out of sight, okay.”

Bleat, bleat, bleat.

The French if they even think some one might consider thinking about considering reducing one their rights they are out on the street.

Sure it is a pain at times, but leaders back down on bad ideas (and sometimes good ones, but in democracy nothing is perfect)

The man behind the counter and told me in French to come back tomorrow.

“I am leaving and don’t know when I’ll be back,” I said.

“I am sorry, it’s the grève. I don’t have any money,” he said.

“It’s prepaid and I have the declaration.”

He shook his head.

“It’s for my daughter’s birthday.” I was saving the story of why it was late but it wasn’t necessary.

“D’accord. But it won’t go out until tomorrow.”

“Merci mille fois (1000x)” I told him one day was better than weeks or maybe months. Then I gave him my blessing. “I hope someone does something really nice for you today like you did for me.