AN ODE TO POSTCARDS

Sofia Gallarate on the joys of writing and receiving postcards.

I am wearily tidying the bedroom of my family’s beach house when I stumble upon a postcard that my friend M. sent me ten years ago. On the front, a photograph of a typical Italian marine landscape: a couple of bushy hills dwarf the antique walls of a medieval village inside a gulf. Text written in a kitsch font that states the name of the holiday destination overlaps the saturated image. On the back, a wonky message reads:

 So many stories to tell you, it is so much fun here!

Can’t wait to see you.

M.

 As I stare at M.’s handwriting my mind races back to the summer of 2008. The first trip I took by myself, it was just a few kilometres from home, and yet, it felt like I was travelling to the other side of the world. Four friends, two tents in a dodgy campsite and entire evenings spent driving go-carts. I stare once again at the front of the postcard trying to recognise a detail, a unique element that would make the image slightly more personal… Nothing! It is just a bland seaside photograph. 

A melancholic sentiment pervades me. How can a stereotypical image of a stereotypical beach accompanied by a few stereotypical words make me so emotional? Maybe it is the yellowish patina that covers the postcard, maybe it’s M.’s childish handwriting that resonates with me. It brings me back to when we used to write each other postcards every summer. 

I suddenly remember the postcard I sent M. as a response: the image on the front - from what I can recall - looked quite the same as hers (surprise!), but my text was quite the opposite to the few cryptic words she had written. I was always trying to fit months of travelling, experiences, and feelings into the tiny white space on the back of the postcard. Failing miserably.  

I used to spend up to fifteen minutes picking the right postcards for each person. My approach towards the selection was a meticulous one. To send an apparently banal postcard and still manage to make it into a personal souvenir, to me, is an underestimated curatorial act. Because while the myriads of digital photographs I look at every day lose their emotional charm in the blink of an eye, this single postcard that was hiding inside an old book I never finished reading, is capable of being reminiscent of both mine and M.’s coming of age adventures. 

I take a snapshot of the card to send it to M. via WhatsApp, but as I am pressing the send button I change my mind. I buy and lick a new twenty-nine cent stamp, and while I’m about to insert the card in the mailbox, I experience the chilling feeling of uncertainty that sending a postcard involves. That feeling of abandoning the safe harbour of digital messaging, where your message is guaranteed to reach its destination. I can’t help but wonder whether M. will ever reply. Answers are not really part of the postcard deal, which makes the whole act more selfless. No WhatsApp blue tick, no ego-boosting feedback, no expectation of charming replies. 

So I decide to go ahead and be courageous once again. I send M. the precious relic to remind her of that summer in 2008, at the same time creating a new memory of the summer of 2018.