At our house in Santiago, we had a mailman who would ring the bell and deliver letters and receipts for packages. The man always looked tired and smelled like alcohol. In fact, some neighbors referred to him as “the pickle” meaning that he kept himself submerged in alcohol.

But packages were not delivered. The mailman would bring a receipt and you would have to use it to retrieve the package. But packages were kept at the Central Post Office in downtown Santiago. That took at least half an hour taking buses from our house to the Plaza de Armas, or main square of Santiago, where the Post Office is located.

My mother and father would plan on the day of the week that the letters they wrote and receipts for packages should be taken to the Central Post Office. When I was on vacation, I would accompany my mother who took the letters and receipts in a special zipped bag. We had to take a public bus and a trolley to get to downtown.

We would walk across the Plaza de Armas and stand in line to buy stamps for the letters. My mother distributed the stamps evenly between her and me and we would lick the stamps and put them on the letters. Then, we deposited them in one of the many red “buzones” (mail boxes) at the entrance to the post office. Then, if we had some receipts for packages, we would stand in another queue. My mother had to show her ID card in order to get the packages.

With our mission accomplished we would walk again across the Main Square to the pasaje Portal Fernandez Concha (built in 1871) and buy a delicious piece of pizza at Ravera pizzeria.

Unfortunately, there was no place to sit in that pizza store, but it was the best ever. The dough was thick but crispy. There was so-o much cheese that you had to be careful to catch it when you received your slice. It was hanging and escaping from all corners.

That first bite was incredible. The roof of my mouth remembered it for several days after because it was burned.

Then we would take the public transportation back home. Most of the time going to the post office was a full day’s event. Usually, we would arrive home by tea time, but some times we arrived after my father, and he would be furious, not worried. Furious!