Guest guest Posted July 26, 2005 Report Share Posted July 26, 2005 One hot day in July, I walked into a small post office in Madras, India. Two other people were inside. One was an Indian clerk who was serving behind the counter, and the other was a German traveler. The German traveler approached the counter. "Do you have Poste Restante?" he inquired of the clerk in a pleasant voice. The clerk smiled, reached under the counter, and held a small item up for the traveler's inspection. "Postage stamp," he announced proudly, pronouncing the word stamp as if it were spelled, stahmp. "No, no," said the traveler, "Poste Restante." "Postage stahmp," returned the clerk again holding up the stamp. "Poste Restante?" "Postage stahmp." "Poste Restante?" "Postage stahmp." This exchange went on for quite a while. The score was love all, with the German traveler becoming more hot and frustrated with every volley. The Indian clerk however never varied his smiling expression, or lost his cool composure, cheerfully returning `Postage stahmp,' to every one of the now exasperated traveler's lobs of "Poste Restante?" Finally the German traveler completely exasperated quit. He stormed out of the post office in a sweaty angry huff. The smiling clerk then turned to me and said, "Postage stahmp?" "Yes," I told him. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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