In the history of written correspondence, the usefulness of postcards, in my opinion, falls somewhere between “telegram” and “tweet.” The sender has room for maybe three or four sentences — not a whole lot of space. But with a postcard it’s the picture that says the most, taking its recipient on a quick little journey to another place, maybe far away, maybe not.
When I found Postcrossing.com, a service that connects complete strangers around the world via postcards, joining was a no-brainer. Handwritten notes are so rare these days, and in an age where social media’s “pics or it didn’t happen” mentality means instant gratification, postcards are delightfully old-fashioned. Plus, I’ve had an obsession with them for as long as my 38-year-old brain will let me remember.
“There are lots of people who like to receive real mail,” the Postcrossing website says. “Receiving postcards from different places in the world . . . can turn your mailbox into a box of surprises — and who wouldn’t like that?”
They are often sweet, and very personal
My favorite thing about Postcrossing is the sense of being part of something bigger. The arrival of random cards takes me on a trip without my having to spend a dime on airfare; the farthest I’ve got to go is the Amagansett Post Office. I have many tour guides from all over the world, without ever leaving home. So far, I’ve seen scenes from Russia and Germany — neither of which I’ve ever been to — as well as Texas, Missouri, and others.
And then there’s the penmanship. It’s my second-favorite thing about Postcrossing. Handwriting may be a disappearing art form in American schools, but it’s alive and well in other places around the world. A woman named Victoria from Russia adorned the capital letters in my name with charming loops, and a man named Marc from France wrote his “1”s like tall, upside-down Vs — visually and culturally fascinating.
But there’s nothing that compares to the actual messages people write. They are often sweet, and very personal.
“My name is Anna,” one 25-year-old from Russia wrote to me. “I am florist. I dream of a house by the sea. What are you dreaming about? Have a day nice.” And Marc, the aforementioned Frenchman, wished me “good luck, good health, and a multitude of postcards.”
When I send out my own, I like to think of myself as an ambassador for Long Island’s East End. I have mailed cards depicting East Hampton’s Hook Mill, Flanders’s Big Duck, and Sag Harbor’s Main Street. (I also like to think of myself as an ambassador for reason and good will in the U.S., which I do firmly believe still exists here, but that’s a discussion for another time and page in The Star.)
“The East End is beautiful,” I write. “We have many natural and cultural resources for you to enjoy. I hope you’ll visit someday.” I sign my name with charming loops on the capital letters, and I mean every word.