wish you were here

years ago, when i was working my way through college, and living in a delightful little flat on west moira street in belleville, ontario, i maintained dedicated correspondences with friends and aquaintances the world over.
and sometimes, taking my lunch break with colleagues in the cozy grill on front street, i would look up from my chips and gravy and see my regular postman rocking impatiently on his heels beside my booth.
"oh hi!" i would exclaim, " do i have mail?"
"a postcard," he would reply.
"from spain," he would add.
"oh?" (this was always the best bit.)
"from james and zenis. they're doing fine. they saw the hanging town of cuenca. oh, and the foldaway bullring at chinchon. they tried some drink called horchata. but they're having trouble with their rental car..."
"oh," i would smile, "bummer.."
"hmmm." and he'd be gone.
my companions would always be aghast at his presumption.
i relished his revelations: they were a perfect example of how exquisitely intimate the wide world could be, and how a few warm words from far away could brighten two persons' days at once.