My neighbor Kim and I took a little trip to the post office last week so I could mail home a package of winter clothes. I wanted to make sure it went by sea in an effort to save myself a few bucks/yens, so Kim and her flawless Japanese came with. She also served as moral support as we somehow managed to shove the 20 pound box in my rear bike basket, and I successfully (albeit unsteadily) biked the 7 minutes to the post office.
The post office is probably my least favorite place in town.
It seems every time I go there is some sort of problem. I can see it on the employee's faces when I walk in, "Oh, there is that white girl again and her weird packages." To their credit, they have a point. For some reason I am always mailing unique stuff. An oddly shaped post card, a package that is too heavy, a letter to a US military base with an elusive address and no clear country (that was a fun day), something that once had batteries in it which caused a whole issue and resulted in a highlighted map of a post office in another town 20 minutes away by train, a magical place where apparently packages with batteries could be mailed from.
I hate the post office.
Apparently the feeling is mutual.
Kim and I filled out the appropriate form and got in line. When our turn came, the lady working tried to be as smooth as possible as she put up her, NEXT WINDOW sign. We waited for the man next to her to finish with his customer. As soon as he started to help us, her sign came down. Ouch.
Kim turned to me as we left, "Well, that wasn't even subtle."
Not so much.
Signed, Sealed, Delivered,