My father once got a letter addressed to "Daddy Windridge, through the gate, down the field with the sheep in, Tenbury Wells." I'm British, and we expect a lot from the Royal Mail. So when my father couldn't remember my address whilst on holiday, he sent a card with an address that was very descriptive, but quite unconventional. It read, paraphrased, "Henry Windridge, Tall Campus Residential Building, UPenn, USA."
My father was in Australia (we like to keep an eye on the Commonwealth), and, well, the Aussies shoved that letter into America's hands like a hot potato. After all, who knows what's going on with an envelope addressed like that? Fearlessly, the US Post took the torch. Did they drop it? Hell, no. Anthrax couldn't slow them, snow has never stopped them, so why should a befuddled Englishman? They actually got it to the Penn campus.
It's then that the problems ensued. The envelope has more scribblings re-directing it around campus than my past three years' worth of lecture notes. It got bounced around the highrises. No luck. He'd put the wrong floor, wrong room number and, horror of horrors, no box number. Imagine the crisis in the postal center.
Then it got sent to the History department, as the ever-resourceful limey had listed History as my major on the envelope. However, as a one-year exchange student, I'm not a registered History major. I can just see the secretarial gathering: "Well, there's no Windridge in this department. Maybe he's in... Anthropology." Gentle shudders from all.
I am, I've discovered, a non-entity on the Penn campus. I know, this is sadder than Beaches. Luckily, somebody loves me. Thank you, Dr. Kropp, for picking up a forlorn looking envelope off a secretary's desk and announcing, "He's one of my pupils." Thank you for validating my existence.
Imagine how excited I was at actually getting this letter. Dr. Kropp announced it like I'd received an undiscovered Shakespearean manuscript, "Have I got a letter for you." Christmas was filled with my father describing his creative addressing. The envelope looked like it'd come from the deepest recesses of the Australian outback. I walked out of the History department, my hands trembling as I opened the letter. As I pulled the stiff card out, I scanned the cover. Interesting. But what pearls did my father have to impart, what jewel to take me through life, what sustenance for the soul?
"Dear Hen, if you are reading this, then by George, it's a good old postal system." Thanks Dad, thanks a lot.
