Misery
I’ve never been a fan of going into banks or post offices. Entering them is like stepping into another dimension – one in which time operates at a tenth of the speed of life outside of their peculiar chronospheres.
Istanbul has turned that dislike into dread. Not only is the incredibly slow person already at the counter, as with every counter in every country (how do they do that?) but there is no discernible system for queueing and my social norms simply do not apply. These edifices of doom are perfect stress inducing machines.
Today, incredibly, there was only one customer at the counter. Two counter staff. My luck was in. I strode to the empty position, with my large letter correctly addressed, front and back, to politely request international postage. The lady behind the counter kept her head down and tapped furiously at some hidden device. I cleared my throat in my most forceful British manner. The tapping speed increased, the head moved not a jot.
Misery
The lady at the other position was on the phone. I waited, at the front, hedging between the two.
Suddenly a man pushed between the two of us at the front and waved money in front of the lady on the phone, whilst shouting at her. She continued her call but serviced his request. The man next to me didn’t bat an eyelid, the lady wasn’t the least bit put out and I reasoned that as I didn’t have an eloquent way to voice my indignation, which did not seem to be shared by anybody else, I’d better just keep quiet and wait.
Just as I was recovering my poise, another man practically ran to the position I was waiting at, and waved a small envelope in the face of ignoring-me lady. This took some doing as she was seriously intent on hiding her face below the counter; nevertheless he reached over and just, and only just, missed ramming said envelope up her nose. She looked up, looked at me, looked away and processed his request. It was unbelievable. Quite simply, the ruder the customer, the faster the service.
Finally phone-lady beckoned me to hand her my envelope. By now there was a queue five deep at each position. Well, to be more accurate there was about six people standing at the counter, all talking at nearly-nasally-impaled lady, plus a small queue behind them. Phone-lady gestured that international mail was processed by her colleague. Whether taking pity on me, or in desperation to divest herself of my envelope, I am not sure, but she thrust it into the face of nasal and indicated I should be served next. Despite the fact that I had been there longer than any of them, the mob didn’t look best pleased.
Nasal had been told by phone-lady that I was foreign, so she rattled off breakneck speed Turkish
Head Bang in Frustration
whilst I repeated “I’m sorry, I don’t understand” to no obvious purpose. Then there was silence as she resumed tapping and eventually a request for payment. Then she stood up and walked to the back of the office and started to lose a fight with a franking machine. Two more minutes passed before a man several customers back shouted something at her and she retorted a world weary yes.
He tapped me on the shoulder, and with smiling eyes gestured that the process had finished (evidently the moment nasal had stood up) and that I could leave the cube of misery. I thanked him and left.
This is my third Istanbul Post Office experience and each one has more or less been the same:-
One kind customer, realising that I didn’t understand what was happening and trying to smooth the path. A bunch (men and women) of rude customers pushing, shoving and shouting; intolerant of anyone who didn’t know exactly what to do and when to do it, and counter staff who respond to the most aggressive, with no time at all for anyone behaving in a vaguely civilised manner. This is my second day in my latest visit to Istanbul. Thankfully this visit is a short one.
Footnote: –
Head against wall
A thought for certain politicians: transform all the streets into one giant post office. Nobody ever smiles in a post office.
romanbritons 