I went back to the other building, waited in another line, paid the tax and got a stamp. Walking back to the package room I noticed a jingling sound. It was 4:25 — 5 minutes to closing. All the workers were locking their doors, sitting down, starting to have tea. I was like ‘‘NO, NO, NO!’’ I sprinted through the last hallway, but as I approached the package cage, the guy was locking it from the outside. I showed him my receipt. ‘‘Tomorrow,’’ he said.

By then I had had it. Outside, surrounded by factories, with dump trucks passing by, I exploded. I turned around and just gave the finger to the post office. I said it out loud too. Then I began to head back.

On my third attempt I had all the receipts and went to the cage directly. The guy asked for my passport as an ID; I gave it to him. He said, ‘‘O.K.’’ As I stood there waiting, someone suddenly shoved me hard. I turned around, and it was a man in a suit. He looked very angry. He pointed at me, as if to say: ‘‘YOU. You’re the one!’’

The postal worker had come with my package. But the man in the suit pushed it back to him and picked up my passport. Then he pulled out a badge — he was customs police. He imitated me giving the finger to the building. By now, the work in the hallway had stopped and other postal employees were coming over to watch.

‘‘I don’t speak Turkish,’’ I said. The officer asked the people around for help, and a man waddled out of the crowd. ‘‘You must apologize to him,’’ he translated.

‘‘Why?’’ I asked.

‘‘You insulted him. You should apologize to the entire post office.’’

‘‘Maybe they should apologize to me for everything I’ve been through to get my package?’’ I pointed to the customs officer, but he punched away my hand. I just kept refusing to apologize and repeating: ‘‘Give me my passport. Give me my passport.’’ Finally he threw the passport at me. It landed onto the floor. He yelled something in Turkish to the man in the cage, who handed me my box, and then yelled at me, ‘‘Get the hell out, and don’t ever come back again!’’

After that I went to meet my Turkish teacher for a lesson. I was shaken up and told him what happened. ‘‘What’s in the package?’’ he asked. I told him it was a bunch of three-by-five notecards. ‘‘I know where to get those,’’ he said. ‘‘You should have just asked me.’’