‘Why don’t you write about the Post Office?’ asked a friend this week, knowing only too well my fraught relationship with that particular institution over the last thirty years. Were I writing this by hand, the tension and frustration evoked in those memories would be discernible in my manuscript.In a world where all salaries were paid in cash and a current bank account was as unknown as a Big Mac, the magyar posta assumed a far larger role in people’s lives. All bills were paid here, letters, parcels and money sent, and the ubiquitous stamps could be bought for official documents. And in a country where only about every tenth person had a telephone – most of which went wrong with alarming regularity – trips to the post office were frequent, either to use their (somewhat) more reliable phones, or to send telegrams to those not fortunate enough to have one.
The disastrous combination of every member of society requiring the services of the P.O., and their snail’s pace of work, guaranteed that you were unlikely ever to get away with less than half and hour in the place; an hour was more usual.
Some of my most bizarre experiences have taken place in this venerable institution. In December 1982 I took some thirty or so Christmas cards to Nyugati P.O. on my way home after work. The queues were longer than I had hoped for in the evening, and resignedly I joined one of them. A more unseasonal pall of gloom would be difficult to imagine: no Tidings of Good Joy far less Peace, Goodwill to All Men here! Just the slam of the door, the bang of the rubber stamp, the surly silence of those manning the brown be-curtained glass windows, and the sighs of the customers already half-an-hour into their long wait. The flicker of 40watt bulbs did little to brighten the dingy hall.
As I approached the front of the queue I realised that the Post Office had now branched out into Christmas card sales. An elderly woman stood examining a pile of cards in her hands. Leaning towards the clerk behind the glass she said,’ I quite like this one. What do you think? Or maybe this one’s nicer?’ she continued moving on to the next in the pile. Thus for a further ten minutes as the queue waited, helplessly.
As my turn came I pushed the small stack of envelopes towards the impassive clerk. His face registered incredulity as I spoke the well-rehearsed words,
‘Airmail, please.’
‘All of them?’ he asked in strangulated tones.
I nodded; (this was a post office, was it not?)
Looking past me into the dim shadows of the distant end of the room he called, ‘Laci! Bring a chair!’
Now it was my turn to look incredulous, as Laci (presumably) emerged from a door, carrying a wooden chair. Without a word he placed it next to me and sloped off. I soon understood why.
It took half an hour to complete the process of weighing each card, finding the appropriate stamp, licking it and sticking it on, then similarly the Airmail sticker, and finally adding up (and checking the addition) of the list of thirty numbers.
In November 1983 I found a friend travelling to Vienna, giving him my cards and some schillings; it took him a mere seven and a half minutes to get them safely on their way.
The disastrous combination of every member of society requiring the services of the P.O., and their snail’s pace of work, guaranteed that you were unlikely ever to get away with less than half and hour in the place; an hour was more usual.
Some of my most bizarre experiences have taken place in this venerable institution. In December 1982 I took some thirty or so Christmas cards to Nyugati P.O. on my way home after work. The queues were longer than I had hoped for in the evening, and resignedly I joined one of them. A more unseasonal pall of gloom would be difficult to imagine: no Tidings of Good Joy far less Peace, Goodwill to All Men here! Just the slam of the door, the bang of the rubber stamp, the surly silence of those manning the brown be-curtained glass windows, and the sighs of the customers already half-an-hour into their long wait. The flicker of 40watt bulbs did little to brighten the dingy hall.
As I approached the front of the queue I realised that the Post Office had now branched out into Christmas card sales. An elderly woman stood examining a pile of cards in her hands. Leaning towards the clerk behind the glass she said,’ I quite like this one. What do you think? Or maybe this one’s nicer?’ she continued moving on to the next in the pile. Thus for a further ten minutes as the queue waited, helplessly.
As my turn came I pushed the small stack of envelopes towards the impassive clerk. His face registered incredulity as I spoke the well-rehearsed words,
‘Airmail, please.’
‘All of them?’ he asked in strangulated tones.
I nodded; (this was a post office, was it not?)
Looking past me into the dim shadows of the distant end of the room he called, ‘Laci! Bring a chair!’
Now it was my turn to look incredulous, as Laci (presumably) emerged from a door, carrying a wooden chair. Without a word he placed it next to me and sloped off. I soon understood why.
It took half an hour to complete the process of weighing each card, finding the appropriate stamp, licking it and sticking it on, then similarly the Airmail sticker, and finally adding up (and checking the addition) of the list of thirty numbers.
In November 1983 I found a friend travelling to Vienna, giving him my cards and some schillings; it took him a mere seven and a half minutes to get them safely on their way.
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