Miracle in the Post Office

Huw Williams | 20:58, Saturday 19 January 2013 | Turin, Italy

There's one moment I dread every two months, and it always arrives with unerring regularity. It is the moment that the telephone bill appears in the bocca (post box) downstairs. It’s not the contents of the envelope that I dread, nor the size of the bill, but the fact that this means a trip to the Post Office.

Whenever I mention that I'm going to the Post Office to people here, they usually wish me luck. Initially I was rather taken aback by this response, I mean, what’s so difficult about a trip to the local Post Office? After an hour of queuing I think I got the point. These days I go the Post Office prepared, usually with a good book, or an opera ready on the iPod.

But the Friday was different.

I have no idea why it should be so, but there was no queue to the door to greet me as I arrived clutching my phone bill and steeling myself for a long morning. "Silly me," I thought, "still closed for Christmas…" but no, the door was open, two members of staff sat awaiting customers at their sportelli. And not another customer in sight. Still in disbelief I had to check, "Siete aperti?" "Si, si." And that was it, bill paid and I was on my way in under five minutes.

It was quite elating, that feeling of just being given a twenty fifth hour in the day. I felt like I had to use it responsibly. The Brit in me wants to rage at the necessity of an hour waiting to pay the phone bill, and dreads the prospect of doing so. So it was a timely little reminder that I am still a stranger here. And that was worthy of an hour’s reflection.