Posta Horrors

So on Monday I received a slip in the mail from the Posta (it's "Poshta," you know), and went to retrieve my package only today, Friday, not because I didn't want it -- in fact, I wanted it desperately -- but because every single person I've talked to regarding the post office, American and Hungarian, rolled their eyes in exasperation and pity. So I've sort of been dreading it, and now I know why.

The little slip of paper directed me to a branch in my district on 16 Bajcsy-Zsilinszky St, which I couldn't even find on GoogleMaps. I decided to bite the bullet and just wing it once I get off the metro, since I've been on the street before. I got redirected by nice Hungarians a few times, until I finally found Bajcsy 16, only to end up staring at what was clearly a residential courtyard and no official-looking post office in sight. A kindly, bearded Hungarian let me into the stairwell and pointed towards some snivelly-looking door by the garbage bins, which actually turned out to be the selfsame Posta. Did I think to myself, "Why is there a handwritten sign that says 'Posta' on the door? Why did I need a door code to get into a post office?" Sure, all those questions and a million more ran through my head, but I've been in this country long enough to know that when facing a situation which makes zero sense to an American and every bit of sense to a Hungarian, asking why will get you nowhere. The answer to "why" is usually "it's just Hungarian/Hungary".

So, I went to this post office, wandered around the inexplicable maze of deposit boxes and desks, until a postal worker finally walked by me briskly. I cleared my throat and said "erm, bocsanot?" and the man turned around a bit fazed. I handed him the slip. He asked me something in Hungarian, to which I shrugged and said the one full sentence I know, roughly translated to "no comprendo, pal." He looked around and asked if anyone spoke English (of course no one did), scratched his head, then wrote something down. It was all gibberish to me, natch. I shrugged again. He then pointed at the wall for some reason, quite emphatically, and I became alarmed thinking I was in some weird 'government officials only' part and the man was telling me I knew too much now. How I determined this from his gestures, I don't know. Finally, he wrote down "BAJCSY 14," just like that, in all caps, as if I were a moron, then pointed to the wall again and said, "BAZILIKA!" Understanding dawned on me, and I yelled "Ertem! Ertem!" then proceeded to make my escape to the ACTUAL post office, which was and always has been next door, across from the Basilica on 14 Bajcsy. Obviously.

The real Posta wasn't that much better, actually, and I had to do the same ridiculous non-English pantomime, but I did get my package. And Meredith, in case you're reading this, when I accepted my package and read on the front: "(1) Calendar, (3) chocolate chip cookies," I definitely started crying. I wasn't even feeling particularly homesick today or anything. I don't even know what the people at the post office must have been thinking.

Anyway, Lesson Learned About Hungary #453537846: Avoid the post office if possible.