You know that feeling you get on Christmas morning right before opening your first present? There's that feeling of anticipation/ excitement. You try to control yourself from ripping the wrapping paper off to shreds. For a Peace Corps volunteer receiving any sort of package from home is equivalent to getting a present on Christmas.
The staff at my post office in the neighboring district capital all know me. I'll know right away whether I've received a package or letter based on their initial facial expression when they spot me coming in the door. They'll either seem happy to see me or worried to disappoint me.
Parcels are tied with string and sealed with red wax. It's not as romantic as it sounds since this done after the package is thoroughly searched by post office staff. I'll settle with them taking small tokens for themselves once in a while (Hershey bars) as long as important things are untouched.
They'll tell me to come around back where incoming and outgoing mail is sorted. They'll have me sit down as they rummage around the back room. I've even conditioned them to expect hugs in exchange for mail. Hugging is a very foreign concept to Malagasy. The staff holds their arms out, perhaps concluding that all Americans hug after receiving packages. This has become protocol.
We're shamelessly desperate for anything that reminds us of home. Even if we find something in our care-package that seems somewhat trivial like a packet of Chrystal Light or beef jerky.
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