I had a half day at school yesterday, so naturally I decided to explore! My main objective was to find the English bookstore I had read about online...it was an immediate success. I hadn't planned on purchasing anything because I have my Nook, but when the attractive clerk with a Spanish accent began talking about history in such an enthusiastic manner I decided it would have been rude to walk out of the store without accepting his recommendation. And so, with a new history book in hand I turned right out of the shop and continued on my way.
It felt as though I had walked across town when I looked up and saw a sign with one of the many vocabulary words I had learned that day 'posta'! (I realize that this sounds like an obvious word, but this language can be so ridiculous that you never can tell.) This was the place! This was the place where I could rid myself of the postcards I had been carrying around for two weeks! I performed my usual tricks and hung back in order to watch someone else go through the motions. I saw my leader stop at a small kiosk and press a button, a slip of paper was dispensed and she went through the sliding doors. Easy enough. I continued to said kiosk. Thank goodness for the English options.
After having received my number I entered the arena. It looked like a train station! It was the most intense post office I've ever seen, and evidently it doubles as a bank. Who knew?
The numbers flashing above the twenty-five(!) service desks appeared to be random, and a lot higher than my number. Surely it couldn't be this confusing for a few postcards?! I caught the attention of a security guard, probably because of my suspicious behavior (pacing, bulky packaging, slight smirks, taking photos, etc.) and he came over towards me. I said the first three simple words that came to mind and shrugged, "I don't understand." He said, "No Anglicky." Instead pointing me in the direction of the Information Office. I waited outside the office until it was my turn, and the information/help that was provided was as follows: "Wait until you see your number above the desk." And then he walked away. Don't judge me people, but this was a far more intense experience than anything I'd ever thought it would be. All I wanted was some stamps. Sure, it seems logical to wait until your number shows...it just seemed to be far more official than the status my postcards warranted.
I took a seat on one of the train station-type benches and waited. Waited. Waited. My number must have flashed when I was waiting for the Info Office. Engaging in even more suspicious activity I left the forum to get a new number, and then entered again--gluing my eyes to the board. #279! I headed over to the seemingly friendly man behind the bulletproof glass. I was wrong. He was not friendly.
I put my stuff through the slot to hand to him, he in turn handed me a slip of paper and pointed to the directions--the directions that were in Czech. "What is it?" He asked, pointing at the small package I wanted to mail. I told him, and he shrugged and nodded. "I'm sorry, do I write that?" I leaned in, pointing to the paper. He spoke again, "What is it?" Again I told him, causing him to shrug and nod a second time. I looked around, still confused, "Do I write that?" The look he gave me couldn't have conveyed how badly he wanted to slap me across the face any clearer. He tapped harshly on the package, and then equally as harshly on the slip of paper. "What...is...it?" Again I told him, making sure to insert the same amount of stern pauses he had. "Do...I...write...that?" I had decided that if he was going to shrug again in response to the question I was going to have to abandon all hope of posting anything. Instead he pointed at the blank space on the paper. "Ok. Thank you." I wrote the description on the slip. "Sign." He demanded. So I did, but I guess I wasn't supposed to have signed in the place where there was ample space because he took on that look of hatred again. I altered it to suit his fancy. Now that the description and signature was finished he passed me a glue stick and pointed from the note to the package over and over. It seemed a little weird, but I can get down with arts and crafts--so I glued. So much for the element of surprise when the mail comes, but whatever.
While all the arguing and gluing was going on, he had gone through and put a 'priority' sticker on all of my items, but no stamp. As I passed the package back to him he asked if that was all, and I told him it was. He finished up his portion of the crafts and looked at me with a different look; this one showed how bored he was of my face. "Is that it?" I asked, hesitantly. "Ano. Nashledanou!" It was an abrupt ending to a hectic ten minutes. Almost too abrupt. This is a city that has given me a receipt for everything. I got a receipt for the pack of gum I bought to make change for the metro. They waved it at me when I tried to walk away without it after paying for a coffee that morning in cash; they never let you walk away without it! It seemed strange that the man at counter 24 wasn't offering me any proof that I had given him something to ship across half of Europe, continuing over the whole Atlantic. When I asked if I get anything, he shook his head, "Nashledanou!" Resigned, I walked away laughing to myself the whole time.
I really, really hope my postcards and other things make it to their final destinations...
No comments:
Post a Comment