Mail. It’s something we all take for granted. We know it will get to the place you send it because damnit that’s how it is supposed to be. You put a stamp on a letter, drop the letter into a drop box, and you know it will get to it’s intended destination. It’s like email, but so much slower and yet still dependable.
I can imagine, way back in the day, the post workers galloping on horseback across the American West, making sure to get the ‘rush’ (who knows how long, 2 weeks maybe?) mail to the waiting person. I feel like I am encountering this 19th century occurrence in Budapest. Except everyone has cell phones. And its modern day.
Wait. Let’s go back.
It is a commonly known fact that when it comes to postal services, Hungary is a black hole in which nothing escapes. I say this because one of the first things I was told on arrival on my first tour of this crazy country, was: Do not let anyone send you packages or mail or anything of the sort. You will not receive it, don’t even think about, you will be sorry if you did.
Well, damn. There goes those care packages.
That first year I’m fairly positive I was never sent anything. I do remember sending out some post cards, but those never went anywhere (or the people never told me they received them). Either way, it sucked. Just think: What would it be like if you could not trust the post? No Amazon (!). No eBay (!!). No Netflix (Fuck!). Really, when you think about what you use the post for (although it is totally archaic and really when are they going to invent the teleport?), it is mind boggling to think that you could not put your trust in it, and therefore never use it.
This is just one of the many problems I have run into over here. And while I do miss it (I could kill for an international Netflix account – if I could trust the post I was receiving it from), sometimes you get used to things that you once had but now are gone. Such is the life of the young (poor) expat living away from his homeland. Then again, that young (poor) expat living in his homeland might be in the same situation. With many more vices.
So when I heard I would be receiving a package with a certain birthday present inside from Mom and Taryn, I was more than apprehensive. I was waiting for the bomb to drop. Or is it the other shoe? After all, Jamie had sent me a letter, and the local post sat on it for over a month and a half. I know this because there is a stamp on all letters and packages and whatnot that customs has received it. And when I looked at the date, it was a month and a half old. This was not a good sign.
It went like this:
I walk into the office, late – of course – and reception hands me two things. One is an envelope containing massively important stuff – a new debit card – and a small sheet of official looking paper. Its all in Hungarian so I look at the receptionist and say, What’s this?
Your package was injured. You need to go pick it up at the post office.
Oh great.
Just the fact she used the word ‘injured’ makes it even worse. Sometimes, I wonder if Hungarians use English words which they think they know the meaning to and actually it’s just a wild guess. Sometimes this works. Other times, its just stupid. I could understand something had happened to the package. But injured? What the hell am I supposed to make of that? When I asked her she just kept saying ‘It’s injured’. Which of course did not help my situation.
So I look up the address to this post office, and its somewhere behind the Keleti train station. Which is a couple blocks from my office. So I start on my journey.
Half an hour later I walk through the post office door. Sweat is running down my face, neck and back. Its only 85 degrees F but the humidity adds another 10 or 15. It was a bad situation because when I looked on the map, it really looked easy to find. I was wrong. Also, no one at the other entrance spoke English, so explaining how to find the ‘injured’ packages was a hoot. And when I say a hoot I mean fucking kill me please.
I walk up to an unhappy looking lady and hand her the official looking piece of paper they had sent me. I doubt its legible. I’m surprised it didn’t randomly combust on the way over here. She goes into a back room and I’m standing there with my arms and legs spread out. There’s no air conditioning in this place. I look like a really skinny (American) football player. Two other conversing ladies stop their conversation and stare at me.
Ok, lets see what injured means.
She brings out one of those large envelopes, not quite a package, but the thick envelopes found in any local post office or Fed Ex in the States. I bet they don’t even have those here. But this one is wrapped in plastic. She hands it to a guy who starts speaking to me, to which I just ignore him and look at the package wondering what exactly the problem is. He finally figures it out and says ‘Oh angol!’ and proceeds to call someone on the phone. I think he’s trying to get someone who speaks English on the phone, but at this point I have no interest in what this guy has to tell me.
Before I left my office, my boss/supervisor/co-worker/friend tells me: Don’t sign off on anything if anything is missing. To which I reply: But it’s a birthday present. I have no idea what is inside. His reply: Well you better start making some calls then.
Wonderful.
While my trusty Hungarian postal worker is on the phone searching for an English speaker (??), I open up the plastic around the envelope and look inside.
Ohhh. Yeah. Now I see why they said it was injured.
The envelope is ripped in half. Literally. And it’s ripped in such a way that you know someone in blaring heat decided it was a good idea to loot through a package from the States, and did nothing to cover his tracks. I look at the guy. What the hell happened? I say. He looks back at me, looks at the gaping wound, looks back at me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. And hands me a form to fill out. To which I have no idea what it’s asking, so he jabs his stubby finger at the signature line and states: Sign.
I look at the wound and the innards still inside. It doesn’t look like anything is missing. And then I realize, Well fuck, even if I knew there was something missing, there would be nothing I could do about it. The package was even insured, but that would mean nothing in this country. First they would hand me 10 forms to fill out, all of which I would never understand. Then they would probably enter me into some sort of legal program that would never go anywhere. And then I would probably end up paying my own money to pay someone who could figure out what to do in this situation. And in the end, nothing would be accomplished. My goods would still be stolen, and the black hole would still continue to wreak havoc on those retards who still use post.
I thought about this, as sweat trickles down my back and four Hungarians stare at me, waiting for my next move. God damnit.
I signed it, and got the hell out of that place.
Only later, did I know that nothing was actually stolen. But if there had been anything of value (and if your name was Hunter Hadfield), then maybe I had more to worry about. But as it turned out, there was no problem. Except for the ‘injured’ package and my journey into a hellish mind fuck known as the Hungarian Posta.
To add insult to injury, I received a letter two days later that stated (officially) that the injured package was received from the States that way, and that your trusty Hungarian postal workers are always there to help you with your goods.
I will remember that when (if ever) I receive a package unscathed.
I can imagine, way back in the day, the post workers galloping on horseback across the American West, making sure to get the ‘rush’ (who knows how long, 2 weeks maybe?) mail to the waiting person. I feel like I am encountering this 19th century occurrence in Budapest. Except everyone has cell phones. And its modern day.
Wait. Let’s go back.
It is a commonly known fact that when it comes to postal services, Hungary is a black hole in which nothing escapes. I say this because one of the first things I was told on arrival on my first tour of this crazy country, was: Do not let anyone send you packages or mail or anything of the sort. You will not receive it, don’t even think about, you will be sorry if you did.
Well, damn. There goes those care packages.
That first year I’m fairly positive I was never sent anything. I do remember sending out some post cards, but those never went anywhere (or the people never told me they received them). Either way, it sucked. Just think: What would it be like if you could not trust the post? No Amazon (!). No eBay (!!). No Netflix (Fuck!). Really, when you think about what you use the post for (although it is totally archaic and really when are they going to invent the teleport?), it is mind boggling to think that you could not put your trust in it, and therefore never use it.
This is just one of the many problems I have run into over here. And while I do miss it (I could kill for an international Netflix account – if I could trust the post I was receiving it from), sometimes you get used to things that you once had but now are gone. Such is the life of the young (poor) expat living away from his homeland. Then again, that young (poor) expat living in his homeland might be in the same situation. With many more vices.
So when I heard I would be receiving a package with a certain birthday present inside from Mom and Taryn, I was more than apprehensive. I was waiting for the bomb to drop. Or is it the other shoe? After all, Jamie had sent me a letter, and the local post sat on it for over a month and a half. I know this because there is a stamp on all letters and packages and whatnot that customs has received it. And when I looked at the date, it was a month and a half old. This was not a good sign.
It went like this:
I walk into the office, late – of course – and reception hands me two things. One is an envelope containing massively important stuff – a new debit card – and a small sheet of official looking paper. Its all in Hungarian so I look at the receptionist and say, What’s this?
Your package was injured. You need to go pick it up at the post office.
Oh great.
Just the fact she used the word ‘injured’ makes it even worse. Sometimes, I wonder if Hungarians use English words which they think they know the meaning to and actually it’s just a wild guess. Sometimes this works. Other times, its just stupid. I could understand something had happened to the package. But injured? What the hell am I supposed to make of that? When I asked her she just kept saying ‘It’s injured’. Which of course did not help my situation.
So I look up the address to this post office, and its somewhere behind the Keleti train station. Which is a couple blocks from my office. So I start on my journey.
Half an hour later I walk through the post office door. Sweat is running down my face, neck and back. Its only 85 degrees F but the humidity adds another 10 or 15. It was a bad situation because when I looked on the map, it really looked easy to find. I was wrong. Also, no one at the other entrance spoke English, so explaining how to find the ‘injured’ packages was a hoot. And when I say a hoot I mean fucking kill me please.
I walk up to an unhappy looking lady and hand her the official looking piece of paper they had sent me. I doubt its legible. I’m surprised it didn’t randomly combust on the way over here. She goes into a back room and I’m standing there with my arms and legs spread out. There’s no air conditioning in this place. I look like a really skinny (American) football player. Two other conversing ladies stop their conversation and stare at me.
Ok, lets see what injured means.
She brings out one of those large envelopes, not quite a package, but the thick envelopes found in any local post office or Fed Ex in the States. I bet they don’t even have those here. But this one is wrapped in plastic. She hands it to a guy who starts speaking to me, to which I just ignore him and look at the package wondering what exactly the problem is. He finally figures it out and says ‘Oh angol!’ and proceeds to call someone on the phone. I think he’s trying to get someone who speaks English on the phone, but at this point I have no interest in what this guy has to tell me.
Before I left my office, my boss/supervisor/co-worker/friend tells me: Don’t sign off on anything if anything is missing. To which I reply: But it’s a birthday present. I have no idea what is inside. His reply: Well you better start making some calls then.
Wonderful.
While my trusty Hungarian postal worker is on the phone searching for an English speaker (??), I open up the plastic around the envelope and look inside.
Ohhh. Yeah. Now I see why they said it was injured.
The envelope is ripped in half. Literally. And it’s ripped in such a way that you know someone in blaring heat decided it was a good idea to loot through a package from the States, and did nothing to cover his tracks. I look at the guy. What the hell happened? I say. He looks back at me, looks at the gaping wound, looks back at me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. And hands me a form to fill out. To which I have no idea what it’s asking, so he jabs his stubby finger at the signature line and states: Sign.
I look at the wound and the innards still inside. It doesn’t look like anything is missing. And then I realize, Well fuck, even if I knew there was something missing, there would be nothing I could do about it. The package was even insured, but that would mean nothing in this country. First they would hand me 10 forms to fill out, all of which I would never understand. Then they would probably enter me into some sort of legal program that would never go anywhere. And then I would probably end up paying my own money to pay someone who could figure out what to do in this situation. And in the end, nothing would be accomplished. My goods would still be stolen, and the black hole would still continue to wreak havoc on those retards who still use post.
I thought about this, as sweat trickles down my back and four Hungarians stare at me, waiting for my next move. God damnit.
I signed it, and got the hell out of that place.
Only later, did I know that nothing was actually stolen. But if there had been anything of value (and if your name was Hunter Hadfield), then maybe I had more to worry about. But as it turned out, there was no problem. Except for the ‘injured’ package and my journey into a hellish mind fuck known as the Hungarian Posta.
To add insult to injury, I received a letter two days later that stated (officially) that the injured package was received from the States that way, and that your trusty Hungarian postal workers are always there to help you with your goods.
I will remember that when (if ever) I receive a package unscathed.
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