La Poste

You know the reputation that France has for customer service.  If you haven't experienced the grumpy french waiter yourself, then you've seen it in movies.  It's part of the cultural iconography, along with red wine, champagne, haute couture, the Eiffel Tower and cheese.

When I moved to France, I wasn't disdainful of service so much as I was bewildered and humiliated by it. Why did I have to go and meet with a conseiller at the bank just to open a checking account and get a credit card when I opened my last account in Boston online?  Why did I have to wait 3 weeks to get a replacement card when I typed in the wrong pin by mistake and the machine took it?  Why couldn't I make a simple exhange of my husband's christmas gift without involving the store manager and almost creating an international incident?

After a couple of really humilating encounters using my nascent french, I started thinking out an encounter at the bank, post office, city hall or other official or semi-offical transaction in advance.  I would write down what I needed to say, outlining my request, and then I memorized it.  The day that I went to the préfecture to request an exchange of my driver's license, I wrote down my request, and then tried to imagine all the various possible responses of the bureaucrat that would be "helping" me.  Usually I'd still mangle the french, and often wouldn't succeed in my request but over time things improved.

Now, I still reflexively think out in advance what I need to ask for and try to think of any tricky words that might be involved in the response.  I don't expect people to be rude, but I don't expect them to help me either.  Either I know what I want or I don't.  Last week I went to the post office to pick up a package that the mailman had tried to deliver earlier in the week.  I had my little delivery slip and Boo was running around the 2-window, small town office.  The woman behind the desk told me that the box was big and heavy.  I was expecting big but since it contained 2 months' worth of diapers (don't ask) I didn't expect it to be heavy.  It wasn't, but there was no way to carry the box, and navigate the parking lot with Boo.  The woman asked me what I was going to do with the baby and I hesitated - should I take him to the car first and come back quickly for the box? Should I try to move the car in a crowded parking lot just next to the door?  She came to my rescue.  She took Boo in her arms and closed the door and went back to helping other customers while I took the box the car.  Boo didn't cry; he was fascinated by being inside the office and looking at everything.

Someone in France finally made a transaction easier, and was actually helpful! I realized that this was part of small-town life, where at least the postmaster recognizes the name and where our house is and is not worried about being sued.

Comments

[cybill]

I won't ask but I am curious about the enormous box of nappies! Perhaps thats is why the French so often come across as (sometimes) demanding and self-assured - they are trained by the bad service industry.

[Isabelle]

Bonjour ! I've been reading your blog for more than 6 months now (thanks to Parisienne mais presque), but never commented before.
I'm French, married to an American guy, living near Paris.
About services in France, we've come a long way! Big efforts have been made to improve the way customers are welcome. I never had myself any problems with grumpy employees (either at the post office or Préfecture, or Caisse d'allocations familiales etc.). The only thing is that it seems that they are always short on employees and that you have to wait for ages!! Talk about shortcuts in manpower!