Ode to Courier M

They come in all shapes and sizes, the couriers, young and old, some moody, some smiling, some with thumping reggaeton blaring. Some drive knackered vans, others come in cars. Some drive past, belting down the lane, then ring me a few minutes later to say they are in front of the spring with the horreous in front, -the old grain stores, a typical site in old Galician villages -asking me where my house is, and I have to tell them to turn around.

Some ring me from the bigger village 4 km away, which our village is part of, because the sender hasn’t added our locality, or they simply haven’t read the entire address and I have to send them my GPS location. In the past we often got calls with the question if they could leave it with the hardware shop in the bigger village instead because they couldn’t be bothered. I guess customer services have improved over the years because they haven’t done that for a long time.

I’m mostly courteous. Even when they turn up late, or they have to ring me three times because they got lost. I have expressed my dismay one time though, sarcastically mentioning that apparently not everyone has heard of GPS.

Once a very young courrier turned up, handing me my parcel, and asking me shyly where I was from. He hoped I didn’t mind. 

I often do mind, I have lived here for 15 years now, and got a bit fed up with people upon hearing I was from Holland, trying out their German on me because they think Dutch is the same. Plenty of Galegos lived in Germany or Switzerland and rant about those countries being so much better, because according to them, Galicia is a bit backward and they want me to agree. I never do. Living in Holland to me felt like wearing an ill fitted shirt I yearned to get rid of as long as I can remember. Besides, before that I lived for 10 years in the UK and don’t know, really, what I am anymore. Sometimes I just ignore the question and tell them the name of the village I live in and keep a straight face.

Villager J did this once, when one of his distant family members who visited had asked him where I was from. He had seen me outside. J told me later he had simply answered “She’s from here,” I liked that.

But this young courrier’s question didn’t feel intrusive,I told him I didn’t mind at all, I commented how nice it was to be asked if I minded, and told him I was from Holland. I noticed his accent, something which has taken me ages, as Spanish to me in the beginning was always Spanish, it’s only these last few years I can discern a Latin American accent. “And you, where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

He smiled and said he was from Venezuela.

“You like it here?” I asked him, and his smile widened, “very much!”

“Me too!” I said.

That left me with a nice feeling. We were both not from here, but we liked it here.

There are a few regular couriers. One of them is Courrier M. He’s been with his courier company for many years, always drives the same van with the logo on the side, and always wears the not very flattening uniform with the company’s logo on it. He always smiles.

I know his name, because it felt odd that he knew my name without me knowing his, and one day I asked him.

Since then we always chat briefly. I know he doesn’t like hot weather and he told me he loves it when it rains.

I did get angry with him once over the phone, but that was many years ago,I didn’t recognise his voice and was waiting for an important parcel and he asked if he could leave it at the hardware shop. It was the second time that week a courier had tried that. I had no way of getting there because I was without a car and I had run out of patience that day. When he finally turned up and I realised it had been him I apologised and we laughed about it. “I was surprised,” he said, “You are normally so friendly!”

M turned up today with a parcel while we were having lunch. I went outside, leaning over the balcony and greeted him like one does a friend when he opened his van door. He rummaged through his van and handed me my parcel, as always, with a smile. I observed him for a second. Portly built, in his forties, not very good teeth, his ears too large, “You’re always happy M,” I said, “What’s your secret?”

He closed his van door and looked at me, blue eyes. He reminded me a bit of an elephant, I realised, and not in an unkind way. 

“What I do,” he said, “I put my problems in a tiny box, and I store it in my brain. they are for me to deal with,” he pointed at his head. “It’s no good blaming others for your problems, or taking it out on others.”

I nodded and smiled.

“Thing is,” he continued, “Most problems people have are due to wrong decisions. People just make decisions and don’t think about the consequences at all. Of course, there is such thing as bad luck, but in general, it’s down to wrong decisions.”

His smile broadened, “But you know, all, this has come to me over the years.”

“I’m still learning,” I said and we both laughed.

We said goodbye.

I went inside, made coffee and pondered. Maybe courrier M was actually a secret magical messenger. A courier that goes round delivering parcels, but in fact is actually delivering messages, to those who need to hear them.

How utterly marvellous.