I know that I have written about the joys of buying stamps and posting them in Italy already, but today, I had another adventure which left me slightly incredulous.
We are now in an area of Italy where stamps can only be purchased at the Post Office (really, I don’t know why I am surprised by this because it would seem part of the core business of a Post Office one would think). So, after asking for stamps at several tabacchi in the last few towns with no success, I fronted up to the local Post Office, just around the corner.
It was an adventure just getting inside, as the glass door would not open. However, there were double glass doors to my left, which, when approached, did open to let me in to a small glass walled cubicle, like the inside of a lift. The only problem was that I couldn’t work out how to get out into the actual Post Office. I felt like a goldfish in a glass bowl, with all these bemused Italians on the other side looking at me! Was there a button to press? Perhaps it really was a lift, and not a doorway. Just as I was starting to think that maybe I should begin to make helpless looking faces through the glass, the 2nd door opened. It was obviously a security door system, where the actual door into the Post Office would only open once the outer door was closed, I suppose to prevent thieves from making off with precious stamps, or whatever. And I would have known this if only I had bothered to read all the signs all over the double doors (all in Italian of course). Silly me.
Phew, I had actually made it inside. And there was no queue and a full complement of staff at each cubicle, so, of course, this purchase wouldn’t take long. I fronted up to the next available cubicle, to be waved away by the staff person to get a ticket, from a machine with more instructions in Italian. I chose a button to press, hopefully to allow me to buy stamps, and not to transact some other complicated business arrangement, such as paying income tax, or whatever.
As soon as my ticket was printed, I was called over to the cubicle that I had approached first off, where the staff person was now happy to deal with me. She happily printed me out two postage paid stamps for my already written post cards, and popped them in the post box. Easy. All accomplished in barely a minute. Now I just needed to buy four more stamps for future cards to Australia.
Dove (Where?), she asked. Australia, I said. She gave me a pained look and pulled out a huge folder full of stamps of every denomination. Flick, flick, flick. Australia?, she queried. Australia, I agreed. Flick, flick, flick. She conferred with her colleagues, who congregated around her computer. Finally, she disappeared into the inner office, presumably to look for some more stamps. Eventually, she reappeared clutching four stamps and reconferred with her colleagues. Flick, flick, flick. Tap, tap, tap on the computer. Cerca (search) … Australia. Cerca … Australia. After tapping and muttering Cerca, and then Australia for a while, she again disappeared into the inner office with her four stamps, then re-emerged for another conference, another session of fruitless flicking and more tapping on the computer.
Finally, finally, she gave a cry of triumph, printed off a full A4 size receipt, demanded some money, and I was the proud possessor of four stamps.
All this took 15 minutes. I now truely believe that Australia is the arse end of the world. Thank god I didn’t want to post something to Tuvalu!
No comments:
Post a Comment