Observations on Customer Service

When shopping or, in a broader sense, exchanging money for a good or service, I've always thought that the actual thing received is only a portion of the equation. Atmosphere, clientele, mise-en-scène, and customer service can be just as important, especially depending on what you buy. The latter quality, customer service, is extremely important in my world. Good service is always well-rewarded by me; bad is usually not.

Having spent more than three years in Japan, that country, in my mind, can boast the gold standard in customer service. Indeed, it seems to improve in time. There, the customer is always right; nowhere to be found is any of this "workers' rights" crap or ornery teenagers acting as if you just asked for a kidney rather than a coffee refill.

Two years ago, I returned to the Island for a year stay after a seven year long hiatus. My second time in Japan I discovered a new wrinkle—new to me, at least—added during my time away: the cupping of the hand. It's really profound what a simple hand to hand contact can do for one's mood; it can thaw the iciest of souls. The hand-cup doesn't occur every time. I'd say maybe one out of every ten times you make a purchase. My old Scottish co-worker and I had many a prolonged discussion over the niceties, implications, and physical effects of the hand-cup, particularly hand-cups at the hands of a concerned member of the gentler sex. A hand-cup is when the cashier gives you change by placing her one hand under yours, putting the change into your hand with the other, all with a smile and an arigato-gozaimasu, or something to that effect. Of course, a male cashier might also hand-cup which suggests it's more cultural or just great customer service…I think. And if a dedicated gal slides her hand(s) across yours, well then…

As for Hong Kong, in the back allies of a Stanley Market, for example, I cannot gripe over crappy service. Yes, one must be prepared to haggle over a rip-off Polo shirt (as this writer once discovered) or a genuine (they sincerely assured me) Rolex for 15 Hong Kong dollars, and in this sense the importance is placed more on the actual exchange itself. But Hong Kong service is no Tokyo. Oh but I do LOVE Hong Kong!

The customer service of the above two locales is to Paris as Jessica Alba is to Sara Gilbert. Realizing earlier on day four of our seven-day stay amongst the froggies that the account was rapidly depleting the Brazilian and I hatched the ingenious and much cheaper scheme of surviving off cheese and crackers alone, gotten from a local grocery store. Alas, there were no hand-cups or even a haggle, but rather a thorough visual inquiry from the patron. We saw his curious personage through the reflection from the glass separating us from the cheese wheels.

Brazil was overall friendly, courteous, and professional. Nothing really stands out here, which means that it wasn't bad. It was good…just no hand-cups.

Mexico, well, if you wanna call Tijuana "Mexico," was the worst. By far. I was staying in San Diego for about four days. A bunch of us decided to go to Tijuana. It was the first time for all of us—about six altogether. Me, another older white dude, and four brothers. We received a full briefing before embarking. The most vital thing to keep in mind—no matter how much you throw back, do not forget this one single rule—is to not swallow the Tequila when the friendly waiters and waitresses circle around ringing their little bells trying to dump Cuervo down the welcoming throats of unassuming gringos. Always ask before you swallow how much they will charge you. Because if not you might just have to fork over $50 or so for one freakin' shot of Tequila. The brothers seemed very savvy in this situation. I followed them, going to such lengths as visibly sucking me lips inward lest the charitable Mexicanos fill my boca. But leave it to the stupid freakin' white guy to start gulpin' down the Cuervo. And of course he didn't have the $20. I mean, doesn't that go without saying? So after five minutes of fruitless quibbling they kicked him out. Along with the rest of us. Final analyis: the customer service in TJ—"TJ," the favorite acronym for Tijuana frequenters—sucked (unless you pay the $20 before services rendered, in which case one can receive much much more than a crappy shot of Tequila, or so I hear).

As for south central Pennsylvania, more often than not customer service is the pits. I reside in a place approximately 40 miles north from where I was born and raised, but the two cultures are actually starkly different, my place of birth being superior, to be sure. Yes, where I come from local gals are wont to throw plenty of "hons," "sweeties," and smiles one's way; where I now live is quite another story.

Just the other day I hurried to a local "Giant" (Giant's a popular grocery store where I come from and now live) to pick up some low carb bars before work. A woman employee happened to be stocking the shelves opposite to the low carb shelf. Her cart was obstructing access to the low carb bar shelf. No problem, she'll surely move it after I convey a few subtle messages most normal people can understand. So I squinted my eyes a little to make it appear as though my view was obstructed; I tilted my head around and between the cart and shelf. I moved to the other side and stretched my head even farther between the two objects, so much so that I was actually on one foot. It was all to no avail, for this, folks, is the hallmark of a baser "civilization"—the inability to read a tacit message in the absence of a direct, verbal encounter. Savages are blunt, emotional, and hostile. I am sure she saw me. I walked off only shaking my head, certain that she would finally then get the message. Surely, she was a native Keystoner and not a transplant (Baltimoreon, or as the locals say in a peculiar fit of wit, "Baltimoron") like this writer.

Perhaps at a later date, not too distant in the future, we can expound on the Island's customer service. There are other unnoticed aspects of great interest to mention.