DIE POST

Thursday October 28

Our post office in Atlantic Beach was always crowded with people neatly queued in a long line - sometimes out the door. The only service it offered (besides actually mailing anything) was the sale of stamps, boxes, envelopes and the odd commemorative thing like a set of stamps. That's pretty much it. 

Now let's compare that to our local post office here, which is about half the size of the one in Florida.

When we were planning the move here, I was planning our Secret Swiss Bank Account.  It would be in one of those gorgeous big banks with high ceilings and marble everything. People would speak in hushed voices in the face of all this commerce. You can imagine my dismay when Greg announced that, after comparing several banks, he had decided we would use die Post. The post office? My delusions of grandeur burst like a helium balloon in the hot Florida sun.

So we set up an account at the post office, having assured the clerk that, yes, our name was on the mailbox. (This seems to be a big deal with the Swiss. They ask you that any time they are going to mail you something. The fact that only Greg's name is on the mailbox has caused some negotiation with the postman when a parcel arrives in my name.)

We signed up at die Post for our account. Shortly thereafter, we received in the mail a package containing our new debit cards. In order to activate them, you had to use this crazy yellow thing that looks like one of those handheld credit card readers you see in restaurants.  It was some sort of code scrambler. Greg read the instructions and then, being male, decided that he would be the one to activate our cards.  Then my beloved dyslexic tried to enter the billion numbers into the yellow thing. Oh yeah and to make it even harder, after one set of numbers you had less than a minute (not making this up, folks!) to put in another string of numbers.  Poor Greg! After fiddling with this for hours and managing to lock himself out of the system, he let me call the help number and a very helpful, English speaking woman walked me through the process. (In spite of this, somehow only my card works right now.)

Now back to the small room at the post office.  The first thing you must do upon entering is to take a number. (My friend Dottie tells me that you must get a number even if there is not a single other customer, as her partner found out.)  In fact, most places here have a number system. Having watched Greg repeatedly get pushed out of the way at our favorite meat stall at the Saturday market, I understand why. (I've told Greg 'Get close and establish eye contact' but he is still hesitant to do so, which explains how I can check out every flower stall in the market in the time it takes him to get waited on.)

In the aforementioned small room in the post office, they sell: flashlights, tool sets, a child's Razor scooter, watches, wallets, cards for all occasions, office supplies, books, candy, phones,  cameras, toys, garbage bags, Swiss pocket knives, batteries, post cards ... and other stuff.  I recently received in the mail a flyer from Die Post advertising iPods, radios, speakers, monitors, home stereo systems,computers, and other electronics.

Monopolies seem to be the thing here. Two huge competing conglomerates are COOP and Migros.  Both have cards that you hand in each time you shop. You accumulate points that can be traded for stuff you don't need and would normally never buy. It's often only when I'm asked for a Coop or Migros card that I realize the store I'm in - shoes, groceries, sporting goods, pharmacy, clothes, home goods, etc - belongs to either COOP or Migros. A week ago, I went into a large, inexpensive furniture and home good store and bought a recliner. When the salesman asked for my card, I discovered I was in a Migros store. Oh yes, and the stores also offer vacation packages (I think the post office does, too.)

I pay our bils at the post office. So far, the only regular bill is our rent. I go in, get my number, browse the merchandis as I'm waiting, and when the ticket monitor advises that is my turn and gives the window (A, B, C, or D) to use, I hand over the rent bill and pay for it by sliding my debit card. 

Greg had a check come from the US. When I went to add it to our account, I was met with great consternation. The Swiss really do like to be helpful but this was out of their hands. They just don't accept checks! As we stared at each other dolefully, that teller and I, an old image floated back into my head ... soaring ceilings, white marble, a reverent hush ... and a system that accepts checks.