British Post Offices have always been little outposts of Government as well as a place to post a parcel or letter. That's not the same in Spain and, even before social media, email and the rest made a lot of surface mail redundant many Spaniards hardly ever used post offices or postal services. There is very little tradition of Spanish junk mail by post or greeting cards for instance. That said Christmas is a busier time than usual for Spanish post offices and there has probably been an increase in business because of the proposed restrictions on Christmas gatherings. Lots of things that would normally be hand delivered will almost certainly go by post or carrier this year.
Most in the Elche queue stoically accepted the situation, took their place and only looked up from their mobile phones when they sensed movement in front of them. Except for the bloke who I presumed was last in line. He was standing in the gutter. His mask was keeping his neck warm. I had to ask if he was the queue.
The queue outside the post office in Pinoso has, for days, been long and slow. I have heard stories of people waiting hours. That was one of the reasons I'd taken my packet to Elche with me when I had other things to do there. I guessed that a city post office, a bigger office with more staff, would be faster. The same strategy had worked well for buying stamps in Murcia the week before. Nonetheless I'd taken a book for the queue. My reading was interrupted by the bloke I'd already spoken to. He wanted me to keep his place in the line as he had a little errand to do. When he came back he started nattering to me again. He told me that Covid was a scam. He told me there was a cure. In fact he could sell me the cure for only 20€ per dose. He proved how effective the medicine was by showing me an interesting video of someone pouring liquid from a glass into sawn down plastic water bottle. He gave me his card. I kept my comments to the minimum and hoped for a faster turnover of customers at the post office counters. I wondered if I attract people like him or if it's just that I remember the mad ones more than the ones who comment on the weather. Either way I was overjoyed with the rapidity with which the postal workers in the Passeig de la Joventut cleared the queue and separated me from the snake oil seller.
If any of you wonder what I was doing in Murcia, crossing the uncrossable border, the answer is that I'd left my home region only to drive a pal, who is currently unable to drive and has limited Spanish, to a hospital appointment. Justification enough.
