The post office: where Sofians fear to tread

If you do your shopping in Sofia, apart from the generally bad service by assistants, you will soon notice how slow it is at the checkout. I used to mutter to myself ‘why don’t they sack these slovenly checkout girls, pay them a commission, or anything to speed up the system?’ But with observation, I soon realised that the cashiers’ main fault is that they have an obsession with trying to extract only the correct change out of every customer, thus saving their own change – for what I’m not quite sure. Anyway, while not known for their alacrity, they are not the only culprits; it’s also the customers who mess around, with absolutely no concern for their fellow shoppers waiting in the queue behind them.

Apart from taking ages to pack purchases in their bags and arguing with the cashier about the price of cheese, they may suddenly realise they have forgotten something and wander off, leaving their shopping blocking the till, and the queue waiting while they go to find it. Don’t even think of visiting the Apteka (chemists) if you are in a hurry, because in all probability you will not only be behind an anxious mother, eager to buy a large selection of drugs for little Mitko who has a slight cold, but can’t be kept off school as she has to go to work but, even worse, a pensioner who has been prescribed a drug which he/she can’t afford. First, they will ask to see the drug and check it against the prescription, then they will decide that they can’t afford a full box, so can they have just one blister?

Then they want to study the instructions and counter indications, which will be left with the box, to make sure they get a few of the side effects mentioned, then they can’t find their glasses to read the instructions. And so it goes on from customer to customer, until at last you reach the front to be met by a hostile stare from the pharmacist who hasn’t got exactly the brand of Paracetamol you want, and won’t suggest any alternative.

Then there’s the post office!! First you have to get by the officious guard. Why they should have guards is beyond me, perhaps it’s in case the customers riot at the bad service? Or more probably it’s to control the queue jumping and pushing to the front, which would take place without this control. Then you have to negotiate with the clerks who may well, if they don’t like your request, slam their window in your face.

When I first came here, I wanted to invite some friends from the UK to visit, and decided to send them a picture card of Sofia. Stamps were obtainable at the nearby post office, so I wandered around the dilapidated building looking for the place to buy them. Long queues containing bored, dejected people stretched from the various desks. Above one was a sign depicting an envelope. This looked like the one, so I joined the queue, which shuffled slowly forward as people wrestled with the clerk over their various requirements. When I eventually reached the desk, I was confronted by everyone’s nightmare. A 50-something matriarch, bleached blonde hair supported by black and grey roots, thick make-up, bright red lipstick, and a look on her face as though there were a bad smell coming from somewhere.

Pushing the envelope under the glass, I asked in my best Bulgarian, "Marka za Anglia molya" (Stamps for England please). The woman grabbed the envelope and with a look of total disdain, studied it carefully and started lecturing me, "Don’t understand" I mumbled. She pointed at the card and another stream of invective issued forth. I was totally nonplussed! Somewhere from the queue, a spotty faced youth stepped forward and said: "She is telling you that the address doesn’t comply with regulations, it’s in the wrong place." He said something to the matriarch, and she produced an official leaflet demonstrating exactly how the card should be addressed. "She says you’ll have to change it," said the youth, apologetically. The woman thrust the card back, and totally ignoring me proceeded to obstruct the next customer.

I went out, bought a new card and addressed it. Once again I joined the queue of hopefuls, and again it moved slowly forward, as people negotiated various unnecessary problems with the madam. Eventually, I again reached the front, and triumphantly pushed my correctly addressed card under the glass screen. She studied it carefully, and with a muttered aside, pushed it back. "What’s the matter with it now?" I shouted in English. She didn’t understand, so hurled another stream of invective at me. I turned to the queue for inspiration, and the lady behind me said, "She says, it’s ok.", "Why doesn’t she give me the stamps then?" I said. "Because she doesn’t sell stamps," replied the lady. "You have to buy them in the front hall."

Giving the madam, what I considered to be my most hateful look, I stamped out into the front hall, and with deep misgivings approached the stamp kiosk. This was run by a beautiful but completely uninterested young woman, who was deeply engrossed in Cosmopolitan. "Marka za Anglia molya", I recited, expecting a new round of problems. She barely looked up, showed absolutely no interest in the card, and shoved the stamps towards me. In disbelief I showed her the card,"Address, ok?" I asked. She looked at me as if I was some kind of madman, shrugged her shoulders, and muttered something in Bulgarian, which obviously meant, "Who bloody cares!!"