Deliveries
Living in England for so long, I was kinda spoilt with getting things delivered. Takeaway? No problem! Indian, Chinese, Patagonian, Lebanese, Afghan? 40 minutes and you’ve got anything you want.
Amazon Prime for that urgent order of 100 rubber ducks? No worries! Delivered today if you’re lucky; tomorrow if it’s a slow day.
Adjusting to Gomeran delivery services has been HARD.
Firstly, I have two postcodes. Some delivery companies recognise one and some recognise the other, which is not ideal when I’m climbing the walls because the super urgent pipes for the garden so all my plants don’t die are taking a month-long holiday in Madrid while they try to work out where I live.
Secondly, I have steps. (Have I mentioned the steps yet?) Turns out, not many people like walking up steps. Or down steps. Or near my steps. Great for keeping marauding hordes at bay in an apocalypse, not so great when I’m left to carry almost EVERY delivery up to the house.
The post office here has a few default actions when it comes to delivering my mail. Every day I bound (crawl) up the steps and check my mailbox in hope, and every day I’m disappointed. (Except the one day where my birthday card from Rose 100% definitely arrived by post.)
1 – Hope they see me in the street and call me into the post office.
2 – Deliver to Brian, the dive centre owner, as they know I spend a lot of time there.
3 – WhatsApp me, telling me there’s something waiting for me (occasionally with a picture just to pique my interest).
4 – Come to the bottom of the steps and hope they see somebody walking up the steps who’ll take my post.
5- Deliver the post to my house.
I love that every day I get to play the, ‘Do I have post and which way’s it gonna arrive?’ game. It adds a certain spice to life.
Now with couriers who promise a door to door delivery, this should be different, right?
Nope. They also have a few default actions – but theirs are slightly different, which keeps things interesting.
1 – Phone Brian and tell him they have a package for me. (I literally have no idea why. His name, number and address do not appear ANYWHERE on these packages.)
2 - Look for me in the café in the plaza.
3 – Ask one of my neighbours if they know where my house is (even when it’s a driver I have seen multiple times, who’s delivered to my house multiple times).
4 – Phone me and tell me they have a package and that they’ll meet me at the bottom of the steps.
5 – If none of the above works, they’ll deliver it to my house and leave it on my terrace, but not tell me they’ve done that. Have I had deliveries stolen? I highly doubt it, nobody wants to walk up the steps. But I’d never know if I had. Two double beds with mattresses were left on the terrace while I was away, on one of those ‘only 12 days of rain a year’ days.
6 – Sometimes if it’s something heavy and I haven’t answered the phone but they think I’m in, they’ll walk up to the terrace WITHOUT the item, and proceed to tell me I need to collect it from the van.
My top delivery moments here (because this is something I’m actively keeping track of now) in no particular order are…
1. The kitchen. Ordered an entire kitchen. Received an enormous box – big enough for 2 rottweilers, easily – just containing two doormats. After 3 weeks. 7 weeks after the order, the kitchen arrived. Missing hinges. I ordered a new cupboard door with replacement hinges, and that turned up only two weeks later but still without hinges.
2. The beds that were dumped on the terrace. I always think fondly of that one.
3. A birthday present from my parents. 2 weeks late, and the post office asked me to come down and collect it. I was working so couldn’t make it before the post office shut (at 2pm every day, of course) so told them I’d be down the next day for my birthday present. “Oh, it’s a birthday present? Oh I’ll send somebody right up with it!” And 3 hours later, a postman turns up wishing me happy birthday, 2 hours after the post office shut and the staff finished working for the day.
4. A duvet cover. 9 weeks late and it’s still not here, but to date I’ve had 13 emails asking me for various details before they can release it to me. First name, passport number, first pet’s number, date of birth, blood type, contract for the soul of my firstborn, the usual stuff.
5. The sofas. This one was truly spectacular. I specified delivery on a Wednesday as I had a foster dog until that day and I didn’t want him destroying the first new sofas I’ve owned. On Monday, one man turns up, asking me to pick up the sofas from his van. A tense stand-off ensued where he glared at all 5 foot nothing of me, telling me that it wasn’t possible for them to bring it up the steps, while I eyeballed him in my most threatening Spanish way and refused to back down. On Wednesday, the sofas turned up – with TWO delivery men. They carry it up the steps, and point-blank refuse to take it into the house. So, I have two sofas I can’t walk past, stuck on the terrace. After a day of walking on the flowerbeds to get in and out of my house (I’m not sure who was more annoyed at that, me or Not-My-Cat), I swallow my pride and beg for help. My long-suffering builder comes round with a friend of mine, to manhandle these things into the house. Three hours, multiple beers and a bottle of Cava later, the windows have been taken off my living room and my bedroom, and the sofas have been taken up the steps to the top apartment, through the corridor, dangled through one window, precariously grabbed by somebody in the next window, and finally, SOMEHOW, placed in the house.
I know how ridiculously millennial I sound saying this, but actually having to wait for things when you’ve ordered them does make them seem more precious. There’s a genuine thrill of getting a WhatsApp/call/text/pigeon telling me that I’ve got post, and it’s always been so long between ordering something and it arriving that I’ve totally forgotten what it is.
So there we have it! Speedy deliveries - yet another modern-day convenience that doesn’t exist here, and one which certainly makes renovating a place more difficult. But one which I’m not all that mad about, now that I’ve made my peace with it; it’s certainly restricting my online buying of absolutely essential toys, games and beds for Not-My-Cat.
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