Caring = Oversharing

In France, dealing with what we in America know as “customer service” is an Ordeal. Everyone knows about the inattentiveness of restaurant servers or the tendency to get frozen out by a shopkeeper. Well, it gets even worse when you really need something important, like getting your suddenly non-functioning Internet connection back up and running or information on how to close a bank account. One can never expect a walk in the park…or even a walk up to the top of the Sacre Coeur. It is, rather, like climbing the Alps: strenuous, dizzying, and deathwish-inducing.

First, when you call customer service, you’re put on hold endlessly, and then, when you finally get through to an agent, you have to pay for the privilege of talking to him—sometimes as much as 40 centimes (roughly 60¢) a minute. (It’s important to note that customers used to get charged for hold time. The law was changed only last year.)

And while you pay for that privilege, you must patiently explain your problem, only to be subjected to the most long-winded sighs imaginable. I swear, if an Olympic event for sighing is ever added to the roster, French customer-facing employees will rack up golds faster than you can say “Oh là là là là là là là là là.” It’s then inevitable that the agent will try to pass you off to another department (possibly from all the physical strain induced by the Olympian sighing), at which time you’ll be forced to start from square one and repeat your entire story. It’s not uncommon to experience this Mobius-strip sequence several times in the span of one phone call.

It’s of utmost importance to be vigilant, because French “customer service” has an acute “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy towards its customers. This roughly translates to, if a customer asks a question the agent will answer, but will not explain everything unless prompted. For example, when I got my infamously expensive pedicure, I asked the proprietress of the nail salon, “The pedicure will cost 15 euros [as advertised on the shop front], right?” And she said yes. Later on, I discovered that the 15-euro price only applies to salon members; I would have to pay 46. Why didn’t she explain in the first place? “You didn’t ask, Madame.” This phenomenon gets really fun when it’s your third trip to the Préfecture and your legal residency status is on the line. “I didn’t know I needed this form—the paper you gave me lists these other forms, X, Y, and Z.” “Well, you didn’t ask.”

You can see how this attitude could result in a customer getting a coronary or putting a fist through a wall. The French, however, are so accustomed to it that they don’t challenge it. They’ve become beaten down by the system. Which…just…doesn’t make sense, given the national propensity to protest the government. Do they just not feel comfortable making demands as consumers, in addition to as citizens? Doesn’t The Man extend to corporations? Oh là là, les français, how did your fiery élan get lost along the way? In America, when we are wronged as paying customers, we let our self-righteous indignation be known—to a fault, yes.

But that’s because we take so much for granted here. Customer service is a breeze in the U.S.! In our first few weeks back, N and I marveled at the absurd ease of opening our new mobile phone accounts and dealing with our new health insurance provider over the phone. Restaurant service was an even bigger pleasure after 14 months of apathetic French servers—so much so that N wanted to tip a whopping 25% on our first meal out in SF because he couldn’t get over how many times the waiter refilled our drinks voluntarily.

We even started to see the ironic downside of such attentiveness—it can get annoying. Like my French students who described their “stressful” dining experiences in American eateries, we found the cloyingness of servers working hard for their tips a bit too much. You know, the overeager “How’s everything? Can I get you anything else?” you struggle to respond to with a full mouth.

It happened with customer service agents on the phone, too. Yesterday I opened several utility company accounts for our new apartment, and found it difficult to disengage from some of the chatty customer care representatives. (Emphasis on “care” in America, because, as I learned, agents are our friends!) There was no sighing—only cheerfulness, rainbows, unicorns, hair-braiding, and gingerbread snap-making. One woman kept telling me how sweet I was and how golden my account status would be. Huh? When I asked another one a simple question, I got a nearly five-minute response, in which account management processes were saccharinely overexplained. Listen, lady, that’s helpful and all, but this isn’t my first time at the rodeo. N called our mobile provider the other day to change his account billing to his employer. When the agent found out who said employer is, he freaked out and kept N on the phone for an extra 10 minutes feverishly talking about his favorite video games made by N’s company. (It’s an occupational hazard N has often experienced.) At the end of the day, as a customer, I am courteous, but I have other things to do with my time. Is that so wrong?

If there’s a happy medium between outright customer abuse (per France) and creepy stalker fans (a.k.a. American customer service reps), I’d like to hear about it.