I'm dropping off some postcards for Martin, a German guy here at the hostel, who is leaving for Paraguay early in the morning.
I promised him I will get them there, I cannot promise they make it to their destinations.
Once, I wrote postcards for Christmas for relatives and friends in Budapest, and on the way to the post, people warned me to watch the ladies stamp the stamps, because they are known for carefully peeling them off and reusing them.
WEeks later, my mom said I forgot to send or do anything for the holiday. Meanwhile, I was holding a 2-foot-long marionnette of Faust for them, that I was too cheap to send back for $40 by post ... so instead I carried that thing through 4 countries on trains. That is WAY better!
Months later, their postcards arrived.
Another time, Tracy sent me a package with a Rollins T-shirt to Limerick. Never made it.
In St. Thomas, my ex boyfriend's mom sent us a care package. With cookies. It showed up months later, mouldy. With a letter. Stuffed inside a plastic bag.
With a note that said, hey, your letter arrived this way - burned! - and we had nothign to do with it. It was clearly a cigarette burn that singed up half the letter ... the post man was smoking and set the mail on fire.
I can't believe they delivered it with a straight face. I stood at the newspaper reception area, incredulous, laughing ... oh really.
Ah, the perils of the post. We'll see what happens to Martin's hand-written memories. We shall never know.