I never fully appreciated the legendary reliability of the American postal service until I lived in France, where mailing a letter or package is akin to the following:

-tying it to a pigeon’s leg and pointing the pigeon in the right direction

-putting it in a bottle and tossing it into the nearest body of water

-shredding it and asking a three-year old to reassemble it

-lighting it on fire, taking a picture of the smoke, and emailing that to the intended recipient instead

-wrapping it around the hospital bracelet of a patient who’s been in a coma for twenty years and whispering the address in their ear

-crumpling it into a ball and throwing it toward its destination with all of your strength

-putting it in the next recycling bin you see and crossing your fingers

-folding it up and pushing it into a crack in the wall of a building that’s about to be demolished

-attaching a beacon to it and dropping it down a manhole

-eating it