Cashiers and Customer Service

In America, the customer's always right? Right?

In Europe, if you don't like the service, options, or policies; TOO BAD! Find a different company. See if we care.

I've gotten used to this style of living. I don't purchase anything on a whim if I know it can't be returned. Returns are rarely available. I don't complain if my food is half-cooked. I don't call a manager about the way the bus smells. It's a fact of life.

When I was in America everyone wanted to take me out to eat for my favorite foods. This sounded like a good idea when I first arrived but I realized almost immediately that there is one problem with restaurants; Waitstaff. My brother-in-law pointed out to me that I used to be one of these people. I'm sorry.

It always especially bothers me when an 18 or 19 year old kid calls me "hun" every time she stops at the table. During a meal that lasted 45 minutes, she came to the table 8 times with her high pitched perky voice asking things like, "Does the food look good? Do you think my ponytail is too tight? If I was a pie what flavor would I be?"

In Russia we hardly ever eat out. It's always too expensive, always bad service, and usually disappointing. We cook in. When we do eat out, it takes 20 minutes to find your waitress, 10 minutes to order, and then she brings the food. After that, you look around or bring your money to the counter and try to figure out how much you owe because your waitress is MIA. It's not this way in every restaurant, but many.

At the grocery store in Moscow, I must have a face that says 'dangerous' because every time I check out, the cashier calls a security guard over to stand at the end of my lane. While I feverishly unload, bag, and reload my goods, the cashier scowls at me and looks annoyed. Several times throughout the transaction she may subtotal the bill for me and point to the numbers, figuring I can't possibly have enough money to pay for all this. She's always glad when it's over.

This is how the supermarket skit played out in USA.

Cahiser: Oooh, makin' pizza tonite, huh?

Me: Yes.

Cashier: You know I was at my brother-in-law's neighbor's house, and he made pizza with spinach and garlic, have you ever heard of that?

Me: Yes, it's quite good actually.

Cashier: Well I wouldn't eat anything healthy on my pizza. That's just wrong. Are you hanging out with friends?

Me: (wishing I had chosen the less obnoxious, automatic self-serve lane). Yes.

Cashier: do you have our special store card that saves you 50% on everything so you can get bonus points and free offers and all kinds of neato stuff?

Me: No. I don't live here. Thanks anyway.

Cashier: ooooh, you're from out of town. Where ya comin' from?

You get the idea. Why can't I just pay for my stuff and leave? Maybe I am cold hearted, but I just don't want to be best friends with the cashier. I know, I know...they're just being friendly.

If you are a cashier or a server, please don't be hurt by my pondering. Americans seem to love this kind of behavior. I must have too, at one time. I know one thing for sure, I don't anymore.

Further proof today of non-customer service in Moscow. I haven't had internet for two days. When I finally reached somebody at the office, they informed me that there is a bad cable in my area which needs to be replaced. I said, "Are they replacing it?" Her diplomatic answer, "Our service department is aware of the problem." Pretty sure I won't be getting a credit on my account for this one. Oh, well. At least she didn't tell me about her day.

Eating Crow

This post has nothing to do with food. I have an old friend who would often refer to forced humility as "sharing a slice of humble-pie" or more eloquently, "eating crow." I ate crow today. It does not taste good.

My poor hubs has been slowly recovering from the travel disaster to Paris. Just yesterday I was boasting to a neighbor about my ability to take care of myself and not get in jams. I spoke too soon.

This morning I took my girls to get their hair cut, a task which gets easier all the time. After only 15 minutes at the salon and $25 later, the lovely ladies were ready to hit the road. I was excited that I had so much of my day left!

When we got to the car I unlocked the door with the key. Then, I opened the door and tossed the keys onto the passenger seat. I tried opening the back door as the front door swung shut and all the doors locked simultaneously. It's an old car. I'm not exactly sure how this all happened. But there, gleaming in the rare November sunlight, were my keys on the seat. That first bite of crow didn't go down very easily.

Number 3 complains of car sickness all the time. We are constantly having to close the back windows because she has opened them. Go figure she didn't do that today.

I looked at my watch thinking maybe I could catch the bus back home. The bus schedule I just happened to grab before I left was strategically placed between the two front seats so that I couldn't read the departure times. I'm glad I couldn't because it turns out the bus was just leaving. I hailed a cab and paid $10 to go 2 miles. The second bite of crow sat bitterly in my stomach.

So I sat at home and ate caramels until the phone rang. Somebody had an idea and I could meet them at 6pm at the Metro station. The good neighbor (the same to whom I was boasting my independence) was able to get a window open and grab the keys with a long wire. I smiled in disbelief and thankfulness.

I could blame this situation on lots of things, but I'm going to take the high road and claim that everybody does something stupid once in awhile. Fortunately for me, my tow bill cost me a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a little perspective.

My vehicle wasn't any worse for the wear really. I missed a whole day of carefully planned activities because I just didn't keep the keys in my pocket. I highly doubt if that same blunder will happen again, but don't quote me on that.

Going home

I went back to America. Alone.

I needed an R&R from my demanding Russian life. No, that's wrong. Let me clarify. I needed a vacation from being the universe to my family. They are an amazing family but I like solitude. I always have. Even if it requires 37 hours of travel. Of course it should have only been 22 hours, but delays happen and sometimes you pull up the boot straps and sleep in Detroit Metro Airport. You get the idea.

It was my first time being 'home' since I moved to Russia over a year ago. Once I landed in New York, I had a bagel with unhealthy amounts of cream cheese. I may or may not have sighed when I took a bite. When I noticed two women staring at me, I looked at them to explain. "I haven't lived in America for a year and this is my first bagel." They smiled and said, "Live it up, girl!"

When I noticed that five planes were boarding from gate 24 and all of them were late, I realized the day was going to get longer. A man from Detroit, who introduced himself as Ryan, starting small talking with me. Here's how it went.

Ryan: Are you going to Detroit?
Me: Yes, I am. And you?
Ryan: Yeah. It's home for me.
Me: Where are you coming from?
Ryan: Italy. And you?
Me: Moscow, Russia.
Ryan: Wow! Your English is really good!
Me: That's funny because I'm actually American.

If I were this guy, I would have made up some lame excuse about needing to rummage through my bag and walk away. Not him. He was brave. He stayed. In fact, he even invited me to stay at his place in Detroit where he assured me he would be a gentleman. I know Americans are nice, but creepy too maybe?

When I finally arrived at my destination, I had an hour before a hair-cut appointment with my stylist. I made it. Before I had even washed the air travel out of my hair, she cut off 11 inches of it. Yes, I donated it to Locks of Love for the second time. It grows insanely fast in Russia. We have a joke that it's because of Chernobyl.

There's more. Much, much more that I will save for a later entry. This weekend I told some friends about my first visit back to "the States" and they smiled and nodded. "You are officially an ex-pat now. Welcome." Thanks. Glad to be here.

Last big about Paris

I apologize for leaving you hanging. I was on a vacation back to America by myself and lost track of time. Blogs on that subject to follow. But for now, I want to finish recreating my memories of Paris.

My all time favorite stop in Paris was Montmartre and Sacre Coeur. I think knowing that Ernest Hemingway, Coco Chanel, Pablo Picasso and other "greats" have walked these same streets gathering inspiration for their art, stories, and paintings made the place even more magical.

As we meandered our way through the charming little alleys filled with vendors, someone called out my husband's name. I was confused at first, but we turned around to see a high school classmate standing in front of us! How in the world could we run into somebody we know in such an obscure place? What if we were just five minutes later? What if we decided to to go Sacre Coeur another day? These questions may never be answered but it was a small luxury to see a friendly American face so very far from home.

Once we got to the top of the hill, everybody was hungry. We couldn’t afford to feed a family of six at the charming little bistros along the way and so we fed them ice cream. They will attest for some time that it was the best lunch ever! It felt so easy to be a great parent in that moment.

When we arrived at Sacre Coeur, our slow moving bunch got trapped. Several African men had the kids hold out their fingers on which they tied bracelets. As they weaved and wound they kept smiling and saying, “Hakuna matata” to the kids. Soon after, big surprise, they asked for money. Since it was our second to last day in Paris, I didn’t want to use up our euros when I knew they paid pennies for their embroidery floss. In fact, Number 1 makes these bracelets for me all the time----for free! They wanted 10E, but I offered them 5. They argued and when I made it clear I wouldn’t relent, they agreed to take 5 euro and let us be on our way.

Next, we saw another African man climbing up a lamppost whilst balancing a soccer ball on a ball-point pen held by his teeth. He was truly amazing. I’m pretty sure he made a good living that sunny day.

We hung out to hear bad karaoke done by a Spaniard who was singing American songs and then lingered inside the church to hear the beginning of Sunday evening mass. It was incredible to me that a nun whose life was completely cloaked in simplicity and devotion, could have the most beautiful worldly voice I have ever heard. We stood still and enjoyed the moments in this ageless church.

Then we paid the Euros to climb to the top of the dome. I honestly think Europeans laugh at stupid tourists who pay to climb stairs. We took it step-by-step up 300 winding steps in a corridor about the size of a small closet and made it to the top of the dome. There we could see the opposite view of the city skyline complete with the Eiffel Tower and the city center. While I volunteered to take the kids to the local squatty potty, the hubs stayed up top to catch the sunset.

That evening we went to Trocadero to see the Eiffel Tower lit up at night. We fed the kids yet another loaf of bread for dinner and headed back to our hotel.

So that about sums it up for Paris. It was beautiful,friendly, and certainly as romantic as I imagined. I suppose some day if I take a crack at novel writing, I would want to be eating baguettes, drinking espresso, and walking the streets of Montmartre for inspiration. Until then, Moscow it is.