The post office is in the back corner of a strip mall, behind the Burger King, next to the place the town keeps its road salt. It’s detached from the actual stores, like it knows it’s not invited.

That’s the irony I’m smiling about as we walk in to mail a package to family in France.

It’s a basic care package: books, games, a funny pair of socks, some pictures. It’s worth a lot in sentiment and nothing in particular in dollars. We’re not shipping gold bars or smuggling Pennsyltucky moonshine for fancy cheese pairings.

The guy ahead of us is stuck on a money order problem that’s above the clerk’s pay grade. The clerk is kind about it. “Go to the main city post office and ask for the Postmaster General. They’ll have to go all the way up for this.”

All the way up. At the post office. Imagine that.

The man thanks him for the non-answer, nods at us, and leaves.

Our turn. The clerk brings out the customs form, where you list the contents and assign values. I write “books, games, clothes, pictures” and guess $100. It’s high, but it’s a box from a whole group of us, and high felt responsible.

Then: “They have a whole new process for this in the computer now. I’m just finding out. Sorry if this takes a few.”

You never want to hear that.

Still, we’re not being sent to the Postmaster General. And going from a strip mall to the other side of the world was never going to be painless. There are questions about insurance. There’s a guess at a French address, where the street ends, where the town starts, what a “department” is. Even with AI helping, it got close to a diplomatic incident.

The line builds behind us. “New system for international packages, folks. Just a minute.” Two people with bags stare at their phones. They’ll be fine.

Then the contents. My answers have to fit pre-filled options in the computer, and the clerk is happy with all of them except one.

“No pictures.”

“No? Photographs, maybe? Or…?”

“Cameras. Are like pictures.”

You don’t want to hear that.

My wife leans over. “But cameras aren’t like pictures.” I whisper back, “Cameras aren’t pictures or photographs at all!” A third guy has joined the line, wedged between the inside and outside doors, staring at his phone.

We let it go. We are now, technically, maybe, shipping a camera.

Finally, we reach the end. That part was good. Everyone in line wanted to see that.

“All that for these stickers,” the clerk says. He peels them one at a time and presses them onto each of the five-plus carbon layers of a form the size of a postcard. We re-agree to a pile of terms on the payment terminal, pay, and get our receipt.

Nobody behind us seemed to mind. They were all still on their phones.

Going local to global is never easy.

Especially when there are people who think cameras are photos involved.