The Post Office guy
I got a lucky chance to query an editor, but it had to be in snail mail and it had to arrive in New York by August 30. So I spent three precious days refining my query, polishing my chapters, and writing a hell of a synopsis.
And then I took it to our local post office.
When we moved to the suburbs a year ago our friends warned us that everyone in this town is nice, except the post office people.
But when you've got to snail mail it, what are you going to do?
So with my two patient but hungry kids, I finally got in the door and stood in line for the one open cashier at the P.O. This is a ten-minute tale, so I'll make it to the point: the balding middle-aged miserably poisonous man behind the counter took it into his head that I was the one who was causing his bad mood.
I post about this because it highlights one of the things Ace and I notice the most about our respective cultures. Americans use customer service because it makes good business sense, while the French consent to it, as a favor to you and the business be damned.
We've had this happen a number of times: a shop person doesn't seem interested in you, you ask a question about a product anyway, and when he doesn't know, we always say "Well, we'll take our business elsewhere." He looks bored.
I know I'm not saying anything new. When I'm in the States, people always ask me "Is it true that the French don't like foreigners?" No, but you'd be forgiven for thinking so in light of their welcome in the shops.
But the post office guy was really a winner.
We ended up sending the package by FedEx, and though much more expensive, it sets my heart at ease to know that the query will get there next week instead of "maybe in ten days," mangled by a disgruntled office peon.
And then I took it to our local post office.
When we moved to the suburbs a year ago our friends warned us that everyone in this town is nice, except the post office people.
But when you've got to snail mail it, what are you going to do?
So with my two patient but hungry kids, I finally got in the door and stood in line for the one open cashier at the P.O. This is a ten-minute tale, so I'll make it to the point: the balding middle-aged miserably poisonous man behind the counter took it into his head that I was the one who was causing his bad mood.
I post about this because it highlights one of the things Ace and I notice the most about our respective cultures. Americans use customer service because it makes good business sense, while the French consent to it, as a favor to you and the business be damned.
We've had this happen a number of times: a shop person doesn't seem interested in you, you ask a question about a product anyway, and when he doesn't know, we always say "Well, we'll take our business elsewhere." He looks bored.
I know I'm not saying anything new. When I'm in the States, people always ask me "Is it true that the French don't like foreigners?" No, but you'd be forgiven for thinking so in light of their welcome in the shops.
But the post office guy was really a winner.
We ended up sending the package by FedEx, and though much more expensive, it sets my heart at ease to know that the query will get there next week instead of "maybe in ten days," mangled by a disgruntled office peon.