A woman reaches a certain age when she wishes builders would start whistling again and that people would stop looking through her. Did I say that out loud?
I met a man this summer who made me think deeply about chivalry. I never found out his name but it all happened one balmy morning in the hills beyond Castelnaudary in France.
Of the families sharing our villa, only S. felt the same acute need for baked goods that I was experiencing so we took to the rusty bikes that had graciously been included in the price of our holiday rental. My dinky panier lept off its hooks by the time we reached the end of the drive and a little further on came the amusing discovery that one of us had brakes and the other had working gears. Hell, we had a working bike between us and as the kids were happily splashing around the pool with husbands, life was gooooooo---ooood.
Undeterred, we cycled on until we reached a sign informing us that the closest village with a Boulangerie open on a Sunday was a mere 5 kilometers from the very spot we were at. S. led the way, skirts tucked fetchingly into her knickers and hair frolicking in the breeze. I puffed along behind---very much the emphysemic great aunt struggling to vaguely keep up with S's tanned calves. She was magnificent. I was drenched in sweat, pasty mouthed and starting to sunburn.
Returning empty handed was not an option. Calling the husbands on our mobiles for a lift back home wasn't an option. We vowed to complete our mission. As God was our witness, we would be worthy of "Operation Pain au Raisin."
Perhaps 45 minutes later, as we rounded yet another hill to find a curious lack of villages or bakeries of any description, a dashing man caught up with us. He wore distinguished mustaches and the country casual attire of a fellow entirely at ease with 80 odd years of picking up English girls.
As he overtook us, we gasped in a rather unattractive gaspy way: "Can you possibly tell us where this Godforsaken village is?". His eyes twinkled merrily as he swept his hand vaguely across the landscape and instructed us to kindly follow him. We struggled to keep up with our escort who seemed at one with the hairpin turns and hilly topography. Our thighs shook from the exertions of yet another massive hill as he beckoned to us from the next valley.
When we finally caught up with him we were in rough shape. Despite quite seriously hyperventilating and dehydrating, we made inquiries as to the secret of his vigour. Was it the air or simple clean living? He answered with the accent of his region "ma bicyclette est dopee". True enough, his bike was fitted with a tiny little motor that permitted him to effortlessly glide up Kilimanjaro and down the Himalayas.
With that, we reached the village boulangerie and thanked our guide profusely. The old goat requested sloppy kisses be dispensed to both cheeks in full view of the late morning queue for baguettes. Despite much arm waving from the baker himself who came around the counter to harangue our new friend for being up to his old tricks again, our very own biker dude managed an intriguing statement as we parted. "Perhaps now you will believe that there are still people in France who are nice to the British."
Thursday, 26 August 2010
French customer service. NOT!!
I don't know if anyone else can relate but I find that I need to vent.
In a big way.
Now.
Based on the fact that I now live in London but used to work in Paris, I have a bank account in both countries. Now imagine, if you will, that upon rising you decide over your morning coffee that you want to send money from your account in London to your account in Paris. We are not talking funds to reduce the debt of a small country but housekeeping or pin money. So that when I am next visiting my parents in France, I am at my ease when purchasing a frippery such as an eyeliner, an espresso or some postcards. Are you still with me because I want to be clear that I am sending my money from my account to my account?
Never having been into racketeering or money laundering, I was perplexed to find that my bank in Paris was not accepting my transfer from London and that it was hanging in limbo somewhere between MY two accounts. I found this out because the money just wasn't showing up in my online statements.
Rang my bank in Paris who told me to talk to my personal banker at my very own branch. I think I last visited this place when I lived off my parents and had a curfew so wasn't really on a first name basis with the person who occupies herself with my "compte." Sorry this just cracks me up in an Inspector Clouseau "Is that your Compte" way. But I digress.
It turns out my "compte" is suspiciously inactive for long periods of time (guffaw guffaw) and then I have the audacity to try to top it up with a hundred euros here and there. As to where my money is, she cannot look into the matter unless I send a fax requesting that she follow up. I am told in shocked tones that I may NOT email. That is to say, as I have not subscribed to the email service that would permit me to email her. She tells me that she will be able to look into the matter armed with this fax in a way that she is unable to without this piece of paper to hand. The subtlety is lost on me so I do some parallel thinking.
Having lived in the Soviet Union while growing up, this conversation could have gone two ways. Either I was going to have to go around or through whatever Gogolian scenario a bureaucrat was sending my way. A bottle of whiskey and a carton of cigarettes probably would have put us both in a weird contravention of banking etiquette and as this was not 1986 Moscow, definitely the wrong tack.
Going around her, the call center was able to confirm that the money was in limbo but now I needed to get it into my French account. Again I dialed the agent in charge of my "compte." She told me that as I had not sent a fax requesting that the funds be accepted, her hands were OBVIOUSLY tied. I sent a fax in my most flowery diplomatic language entreating her to accept the transfer and still nothing on my statement.
It turns out I had failed to add a photocopy of my passport which apparently proved beyond reasonable doubt that I was the very same housefrau who had been haranguing the call centre to accept her meagre pin money. When I cackled down the telephone at the keeper of my "compte" that she could see how surreal this was becoming she gathered herself and snapped back that without identification, Madam could be trying to access any number of "comptes".
Well I never!!
In a big way.
Now.
Based on the fact that I now live in London but used to work in Paris, I have a bank account in both countries. Now imagine, if you will, that upon rising you decide over your morning coffee that you want to send money from your account in London to your account in Paris. We are not talking funds to reduce the debt of a small country but housekeeping or pin money. So that when I am next visiting my parents in France, I am at my ease when purchasing a frippery such as an eyeliner, an espresso or some postcards. Are you still with me because I want to be clear that I am sending my money from my account to my account?
Never having been into racketeering or money laundering, I was perplexed to find that my bank in Paris was not accepting my transfer from London and that it was hanging in limbo somewhere between MY two accounts. I found this out because the money just wasn't showing up in my online statements.
Rang my bank in Paris who told me to talk to my personal banker at my very own branch. I think I last visited this place when I lived off my parents and had a curfew so wasn't really on a first name basis with the person who occupies herself with my "compte." Sorry this just cracks me up in an Inspector Clouseau "Is that your Compte" way. But I digress.
It turns out my "compte" is suspiciously inactive for long periods of time (guffaw guffaw) and then I have the audacity to try to top it up with a hundred euros here and there. As to where my money is, she cannot look into the matter unless I send a fax requesting that she follow up. I am told in shocked tones that I may NOT email. That is to say, as I have not subscribed to the email service that would permit me to email her. She tells me that she will be able to look into the matter armed with this fax in a way that she is unable to without this piece of paper to hand. The subtlety is lost on me so I do some parallel thinking.
Having lived in the Soviet Union while growing up, this conversation could have gone two ways. Either I was going to have to go around or through whatever Gogolian scenario a bureaucrat was sending my way. A bottle of whiskey and a carton of cigarettes probably would have put us both in a weird contravention of banking etiquette and as this was not 1986 Moscow, definitely the wrong tack.
Going around her, the call center was able to confirm that the money was in limbo but now I needed to get it into my French account. Again I dialed the agent in charge of my "compte." She told me that as I had not sent a fax requesting that the funds be accepted, her hands were OBVIOUSLY tied. I sent a fax in my most flowery diplomatic language entreating her to accept the transfer and still nothing on my statement.
It turns out I had failed to add a photocopy of my passport which apparently proved beyond reasonable doubt that I was the very same housefrau who had been haranguing the call centre to accept her meagre pin money. When I cackled down the telephone at the keeper of my "compte" that she could see how surreal this was becoming she gathered herself and snapped back that without identification, Madam could be trying to access any number of "comptes".
Well I never!!
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