La Posta

I went to the post office to mail something to a friend who had recently moved to Italy. I waited until he and his husband got settled before sending them a “welcome to your new, far less stressful than living in America, life! Ciao bello!” care package.

In ancient times they carved the letters into rocks and then you mailed the rock by hurling it the recipient. This also coincided with the advent of lawsuits. ©SheilaMoeschenPhotography

I take the post office very seriously. Who run the world? Sorry Bey, but it’s custodians, admins, tech support, maintenance, housekeeping, and postal workers. I am always on my best behavior at the post office–polite, friendly, patient. Mostly because I’m intimidated; these people have power, and if you don’t believe that you might be part of the problem. You and your attitude are all that stands between getting the box of Nana’s crystal stemware safely to Bloomington or having it tossed in the back of a truck underneath 60 pounds of birdseed headed to Columbus. I’ve seen this play out so many times.

A customer rushes in like she’s in the colonoscopy express line. Barely looking up from her phone, she shoves the box on the counter. She can’t be bothered to respond to the postal worker’s pleasantries, “Morning, what can I do for you?” She’s in mid-sentence: “...yeah this is going to Sacramento and can you get it there fastest and least expensive?” You might as well ask the employee to turn back time. If the employee is young enough they tolerate the person’s rudeness. After all, they know how to use TikTok and practically invented the Karen brand. But if they are close to retirement you can see them working out the years to pension – asshole tolerance level equation in their heads. In the end, the customer will be huffy about incurring a cost based on a rates system that is out of her control, but she feels is a personal affront. The employee will wait until she’s gone to deposit her precious package in the area underneath the leaky AC unit.

I finished filling out the extra forms for international mail, which make you feel like you’re being interrogated by a detective in a noir: What’s in this? Who are you? Where is this going and to who and how can we get in touch with both of you? Have you had any contact with any shady characters lately? Was one of them a dame with smokey eyes and a smile laced with arsenic and regret?

I brought everything up to the desk and made my ritual offering of respect in the form of a small talk about the weather. The clerk took my items and began typing.

CLERK: Okay, and what are the contents?

ME: A book and a calendar.

CLERK: Just a book? Because it says here you can’t send albums.

ME: Like…..records?

CLERK (squints at the screen): I think they mean photo albums.

We fell silent. Odd on both accounts, I thought. I tried to remember the last time I had seen a photo album in someone’s house under the age of 72. Mine were tucked in a storage box in the attic where they belonged. No one should have to see pictures of 8-year old me dressed as a Smurf as part of our town’s holiday parade. What could Italians have against photo albums, unless they were part of some secret recipe smuggling ring they didn’t want to fall into the wrong hands, like Guy Fieri’s.

A ban on record albums made more sense to me. The Best of Bread should not be allowed to cross international borders.

We moved on.

CLERK: Tracking?

ME: Yeah, tracking would be good.

CLERK: Because it costs extra.

ME: Oh. How much?

CLERK: (type-type-type-type….squints): Double the amount.

ME: Oh. Um, I’ll just tell him to keep his eyes peeled for a package.

I figured it was low risk enough that I could enlist my friend in doing his part for the American postal service that he had abandoned along with our terrible healthcare and overt bigotry. The clerk was apologetic about the tracking fee. I told her it was no big deal, I just hadn’t ever encountered that stipulation. She told me that every country has its own set of rules and restrictions around shipping.

CLERK: This one woman came in and was sending a whole bunch of stuff to Greece. A whole package of stuff that included markers. No markers.

ME: No markers?

CLERK: No. We had to take them out. No markers.

It was weird, but also made some sense to me. With all that classical architecture and all of those ancient statues, you don’t want people running around the Parthenon with Sharpies. That’s just a flurry of penis graffiti waiting to happen.

I asked the clerk if, based on her expertise, she could ballpark a time frame when my items might arrive. She thought for a few seconds.

CLERK: It will probably leave the country in about a week…

I could hear the ellipses in her tone. Meaning that after that it was in God’s hands. But not a Greek god who would definitely turn your sister into a tree for attempting to ship markers on his watch.

I thanked her for all her help and wished her a good rest of the day.

She nodded. She got it; she knew I knew.

Rispettare l’ufficio postale, si? Capisce.

Si, si. Capisce Don Postale. Grazie.

I saw something similar on another Substack and loved it. Humans are both the worst AND the best! I’m rooting for us! Suck it, Bots! But not you, Roomba. You are perfection.