called When the Post German Federal post office, there were nice, large and heated switch halls. In these halls, several benches and small tables, sometimes also stand-up desks for the case that someone had to fill in by Hand, a postal order or a number card. Here, a lot of pensioners, whose apartment was uncomfortable, or too cold, met also many young mothers with strollers, and some of the unemployed. The Post had a tendency to non-profit status. Young women took their infants fresh or quenched you. The pensioners consumed the brought loaves of bread. The officials (it was said at the time, really: the officials) saw the Goings patiently. Of this impressive community life today nothing is left of it.
Rainer Hank
Freelance writer in the business.
F. A. Z.
memories of the post office as a social heat tube, which today hardly anyone remembers, thanks to the Poet Wilhelm Genazino, who died recently at the age of 75 years. Under the title “Tarzan am Main” has he written about walks through his city (of course: Frankfurt). The city has something from the jungle, where Tarzan is swinging in the folders of our youth from vine to vine. Everything seems to be peaceful. Where the Alien lurks dangerous, you never know exactly.
Genazino tells of cats in shop Windows, nocturnal nibbling mice and alcohol needy people in the grey of kiosks. Suddenly, you have to wonder why you asked never why it the tank is in the interior of the cities today it is hard to make, or why in the guest houses, no pinball more. The familiar is foreign, Overlooked visible, and the lack of as a lack of recalls in the first place. As the post office, with its officials, pensioners and young women.
A silent Polonaise
Today is the post office “McPaper”. The sale of stamps, or the distribution of packages is only a side business. A message from our DHL courier, he has not encountered, unfortunately, left us in the last week of the pre-Christmas Post-the experience of many fellow citizens share. Of the “hall” we can no longer speak. In the Morning there were hardly any free floor space. As if by an invisible Hand to mute conga seduced, wall envelopes the queue only to have the big shelf with the letter, and then in front of the felt-tip pens and ball point to Bern at the very back. Mothers – of which there were many – used their children as a placeholder in the queue in order to supply quickly even with the write stuff. We were allowed to attend the Drive, by the way, the next day, involuntarily, because our DHL driver had it, managed to be different as promised, the package in a timely manner at McPaper. Or the overtaxed employees, civil servants do not have long missed it on the first try.
