I always go to lunch with my husband on Fridays; so we decided to go together to figure out the bill-paying process. Truth be told, we were both kind of scared we'd do it wrong; so we brought the other along for moral support. And, let's face it: We love sharing our crazy adventures together!! We started with a totally American lunch at Subway, where they had neither Honey Oat bread nor any chips whatsoever. We decided to be total Americans and get the 30 cm (foot long) size. No regrets! Then that's when the "fun" started.
Here in Hungary, most people pay their household bills (electric, phone, cable, cell) at the Post Office. I'd never heard of this before, but new country = new rules. We walked through St. Stephan's Square and saw the workmen setting up for Budapest's extremely famous Christmas Market; so that got us really excited. And then we found the post office. When you enter, there's this big machine. You pick the reason you're there from a list, and then the machine gives you a number. There are 12 or 13 different lines, and they all serve different sequences of ticket numbers. For instance, we were #1226 and were asked to go to Line #10; however the people in front of us were #5543 and were asked to go to Line #5. There's a big blinking sign on the ceiling with blinking lights and *ding* sounds going off every few seconds to alert you to look at changes on the board. It was very efficient while being very confusing and overwhelming. Maybe you just had to be there. Anyway, we waited in our line for around ten minutes or so for our number to *ding* onto the board on the ceiling. It finally did; so we made our way over. Thank goodness my husband speaks some Hungarian and was able to make the clerk understand what we needed. She looked at us a little scared and in broken English said, "It is not here. There is other post office. You go out, turn right. It is big brown door. Then she writes part of an address on a slip of paper and sends us out into the world to find the "big brown door."
Naturally, this turned our already slightly scary adventure into one we'll always remember. Looking back on it, the "other" post office was pretty much like what she told us. We went out. We took a right. And there was a big, brown door down the street. We looked at the huge, closed door with keypad entrance. We saw no address or number. We saw names like "Dr. Nagy" or the ---- Company. We saw no post office sign. This is what we saw:
So, in completely American style, we kept walking and searching for a big brown door with a post office sign. And, no, we never found one. My husband was ready to give up; but I am nothing if not extremely perseverant until downright annoying. We walked back to the door, and I took a closer look. See that little green sign on the wall on the left side of the door? THAT is the post office sign. And, magically, the door opened. There was a man standing right there talking on the phone. Had I been somewhere where I speak the language, I would have asked him very politely how to get to the "other" post office; but I didn't do that. I just barged in like I owned the place. This is what we saw:
So we walked down the long hallway, into a courtyard under construction, past the Port-O-Potty, and there it was: the tiny green sign again! We'd arrived! We found the "other" post office behind the "big brown door" with no address, no code, and a teeny tiny sign. We walked in there like we owned the place and paid three months of cell phone bills. We felt like we'd climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro.
The Foreign Service is like that, though. You'll go days or weeks just dealing with the mundane, and then something as "simple" as paying a bill can turn into an adventure you'll remember for the rest of your life. It wasn't a big deal, looking back; but it was a moment that a life back home wouldn't have offered us. That's what makes this life so special. I wouldn't change it for the world.
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