Two days ago: There’s a You Have A Package slip on my door. I’m very excited. I have a package! The sender’s name is written out in Hebrew*, and appears to be “Felternespoot.” Or “Paltornsafot”. Or some combination therein.
Decide to brave Israeli red tape another day.
Today: doorbell rings. It’s the Package Guy. He hands me an envelope. I sign the thing, he goes away.
I open the envelope. The letter is from Bumrungrad Hospital, with presumably the same name written above in what could be Thai.
Dear Mr. Amit Buda:
I already received your payment from your insurance, so I will refund your deposit.
Please inform me of your bank’s name and address.
Credit Management Department
Dangit! Somewhere out there Mr. Amit Buda has my cookies, or copy of Bitch magazine, or whatever it is that some nice person–mister and miz Felternaspoot–decided to send me. I mean, could be some propaganda from my bank, but a girl can hope. And given that I had to sign for the package, I don’t know that there’s any way to trace my gifty back via the Israeli mails. Ah, well. Everything is impermanent. Including my cookies and Mister Amit Buda’s deposit. Actually, he’s probably very much getting the worse end of this deal. Hope he likes to read American feminist pop culture critique….
*ie without vowels, and some consonants change based on the vowelling–if you don’t have, you guess until it sounds right.