The Black Forest is about one-fourteenth the size of Washington state’s forests, but it is about one and a half times the size of Olympic National Park. In this vast forest is Bad Wildbad, an old spa town.
There were some houses even high up in the mountains, and I saw two garbage trucks come there to collect the trash. I waved to the drivers. I imagined that the mail must be delivered there, too.
At a local restaurant in downtown Bad Wildbad, I ate risotto made with chanterelle mushrooms from the Black Forest. It was delicious. Our waitress Laura was warm.
Tim did the laundry. At the quiet spa, where there was no one else around, I had fun relaxing in the warm water with Tim holding pool noodles because he can’t swim.
Behind a coffee roastery, I found three mail trucks parked in the parking lot. I slipped a postcard with a greeting under the windshield wiper of one of them.
I learned that the roastery building had been a post office for about 100 years, from 1923 until as recently as 2025.
The current post office was in part of a building across from my hotel. It only opens from 2:30 to 5:30 p.m. There was only one service window and one male clerk. Quite a few customers came in.
In Denmark, I had to use international stamps for international mail. But in Germany, I learned that domestic stamps could also be used for international mail as long as the total postage was sufficient. The clerk couldn’t understand English, but Tim helped me.
While I was having breakfast in the hotel cafeteria, I saw a mail truck drive past shortly after 8 a.m. and pull into the post office across the street.
Later, I took another walk to the roastery. There was one mail truck parked in front, and seven or eight more were packed into the small parking lot in the back. I could see packages in a cart through the window. A man was loading mail into the rear of one of the vehicles.
“Hello!” I called out, and he said hello back. No one told me I couldn’t go in.
“I’m Issey. I love post offices. Are you a postal carrier? I paint postal scenes. I’d like to give you a postcard.”
I showed him a small notepad on which I had written, “Please take care of yourself,” but he declined it.
I decided to stand at the entrance to the parking lot and wave.
Then, suddenly, a large truck came in with a postal horn painted on the back!
I thought, “It must be difficult to maneuver such a big truck in such a small parking lot.” I wanted to take a photo, but I hesitated. Then I thought, “Oh, well!” and went over to have a look.
I was pleasantly surprised to see a female postal carrier loading the truck. I said, “Hello!” and held out a postcard. She gestured that it needed a stamp.
“It’s for you,” I said. She accepted it. “Danke schön!” I said, and we shook hands. Her name was Melissa.
