Different ways to travel

When the postman rang, it had been snowing for hours. Snowflakes fell silently on the courtyard of the classic Budapest downtown building. Some clang to the forged barrier that follows the corridors for a while. Then when it becomes too difficult to keep up on each other’s shoulders, suddenly they swam and join the snow mass below. In one of the apartments of the building, in front of the rose-patterned wallpaper, geometrically arranged black and white photos hang, one next to another. The old woman wiped off the dust of them then put on the heating, as all of a sudden it got very cold. A sudden ring woke her up from the task.

The postman shattered the snowflakes quickly changed into water drops from his shoulders. He came in, sat in the poorly lit kitchen and fumbled around in his bag. As the old tradition required, she offered him a drink, a really strong Hungarian shot. By the time the alcohol burned though the cold of his body and turned into flames in his throat, he found the postcard in his courier’s bag. On it were the green endless rice fields of Bali. He gave it to the old lady and waited for another old tradition: chatting about personal matters to a virtually unknown postman. He needed to know where the postcard came from and what was on it.

She knew the unwritten rules too well to ignore it. ‘My granddaughter wrote me’ she said. The postman waited in silence for the story to develop. The clock was ticking loudly, but the snow absorbed all of the outside noise. ‘This is a strange stairway’ the postman said peeping at the postcard across the table. ‘It is’ she wagged. She has never seen such a thing before either. Maybe, because she has never travelled outside of the country. She did travel through different eras though. A journey that gave her memories of wars and walls and their fall; and deaths and births instead of rice fields. All that was left of that journey was on her wall.?‘What does it say?’ he asked.?She put on her reading glasses and read it out loud.?‘Dear Grandma, I wish you a Merry Christmas. I hope you feel well. We are good. I will see you soon. Love you.’

It was hard to say whatsoever.?The postman put down the empty glass. ‘Merry Christmas and ho-ho-ho-ho’ he laughed loudly at his joke and left. The snow kept falling silently onto the courtyard. Grandma read the postcard again, and then put it up on the wall. The green rice fields were a colourful stain between the black and white pictures.