Who Needs 'Em?

I don’t remember exactly when I stopped sending postcards, but it was probably sometime in this century. It just seemed so old-fashioned all of a sudden, and not in the cool, good way of vintage clothing. Why spend all that time trudging around Paris looking for airmail stamps which, with the Euro and all, each cost more than 15 minutes in an internet café? Said café, by the way, located on every block. (How unlike the mailbox.)

Now I could go ahead and have all the adventures in the first place. On my way to the airport to fly home, I’d spend less than half an hour summarizing everything from the café au lait on the Rue Cler to reaching the Eiffel Tower’s summit at midnight. Having now crafted this overlong, unedited, self-indulgent piece of quote-unquote travelog, I could instantly deliver it to 200 people with the careful application of the bcc. And it would reach them before I did.

Who needed postcards?

Still. I was drawn to them. I bought them up like penny candy. Something sentimental in me, I guess. I couldn’t have explained why, and this is me, who can come up with a rationale for everything I do. No. I just bought postcards and took them home and piled them up and never thought about them again.