October 2024 Newsletter
Volume 8, Number 2, October 2024
Dear Friends,
Happy Halloween. No tricks, only treats here. Donna and I recently returned from Brittany, where it was the autumn of the dishwasher, Belle Île, and the phone. I’ll tell you about the dishwasher and phone some other time. As for Belle Île….
It’s the largest island (85 square km) off the coast of Brittany, on the Atlantic side, a fifty minute ferry ride from Quiberon. It has fifty-eight beaches, four villages, three lighthouses, and hiking trails all around, about a dozen of which we walked. We also walked the winding streets of Le Palais, the largest village (and port), and climbed 247 steps to the top of Le Grand Phare—The Big Lighthouse—the highest point on the île for 360 degree vertigo views of the fertile land, glistening lapis lazuli (calm at the time) sea, and beguiling and bewitched coastline—the reason Claude Monet, The Divine Sarah, and Sebastien Le Prestre de Vauban all came there:
Monet came for the shape-shifting light, craggy coast, rocky headlands, grottos, inlets, and serrated sea stacks—needles—formed and reformed by the pulsing beat (and beating) of the sea and painted Les Aiguilles de Port Coton;
Bernhardt bought an abandoned Napoleon I fort, accessorized it, and made it a summer home that she went to every summer for almost thirty years for privacy, refuge, and replenishment, where she enjoyed the pleasures of her family, close friends, pets, and gardens—and the engrossing sight, sound, smell, taste, and daily dip—immersion—into the waters of the Bay of Biscay;
Vauban came because Louis XIV told him to build a fort (in the 17th century) on top of a 16th century citadel to keep the English navy away.
Donna and I were there because it wasn’t summer when the island is jammed, and because she’d never been there, and I hadn’t been for two decades. We stayed in a hotel called Le Grand Large, which I thought meant the Big Bigger or Big Wide, but Google translates as “the open sea,” which, in fact, it faces. We stayed in the Captain’s Apartment at the top of the hotel in an apartment with seven windows and all direction views, and, since it was September, a month that ends in an r, we—I more than Donna—ate lots of Belon oysters from across the bay in Locmariaquer and thought about Eleanor Clark and her book, The Oysters of Locmariaquer. It was a perfect three nights, four days, all hallows, no hollows, on a very very belle île.
Meanwhile, here is the rest of the story, Agent Orange. If you haven’t read the first part or forgot it or want to read it again, it's in the Volume 8, Number 1 newsletter on my website here: https://www.markgreenside.com/newsletters.
Agent Orange, continued….
….. Two months later, back in California, I get a bill from Orange charging me the non-sale price for the Live Box I returned two months earlier. I call Sharon, who after two more months of being billed for a Live Box I no longer have, stops the billing. Eight months later I’m back in Plobien and planning to drive to Quimper and Orange to get my refund.
I’m trying to guess the best time to go and avoid the wait, which is like trying to figure out the fastest line in the supermarket or the quickest lane of traffic. It’s hit and miss, and for me, in France, as elsewhere, it’s mostly miss. Still, I have a plan.
Over the years, I’ve learned French people shop most often before lunch, from ten to twelve, after school and work, between five and seven, and on Saturdays, with the heaviest traffic occurring one hour before lunch and one hour after, and the lightest during lunch, between twelve and two, when most people in France stop whatever they’re doing—except maybe surgery—to eat.
Factoring all of this in—and remembering when I’m on my way home from the beach at three or four o’clock, French people are arriving in squads—I decide to drive to Quimper at nine o’clock on a Wednesday morning, figuring the store opens at nine-thirty like most stores, and that no one is early for anything in France, except maybe death.
I drive to my latest secret parking place, which apparently is not secret anymore. I park next to the river, near the Cathedral, where the Orange store is, on Cathedral Square. This, I think, is a good omen. More and more, as I get older, I seek and find omens everywhere: first pitch a strike, the Giants will win; blood, sugar, cholesterol numbers OK, I’m good for another century.
I put three euros in the meter for two hours parking, thinking worst case scenario, just in case…. I jaunt around the corner and see a wedge of four people standing in front of the store. Pretty good, I think, proud of myself for getting it right…. More and more, my French thinking is getting better and better. I get closer to the wedge of four and see another wedge of six people inside, also waiting, as this store apparently opens at nine o’clock, and at nine-o-five, which it is now, it’s busy.
Five people are working in the store, but thanks to strict French division of labor rules, only two are actually talking to customers. The others are probably planning lunch or are on synchronized breaks or maybe are high school or college student summer interns. France is very good at providing part-time, seasonal jobs, which by the math alone should translate into better, quicker service, but doesn’t.
I join the outside wedge of four, armed with my papers, the one thing I am never short of. My dad was a lawyer. I keep everything: tax records and receipts going back twenty years; contracts, policies, and warranties that expired decades ago; every paper I ever signed from my first day of employment to my last. And that’s in the U.S. In France, I also keep letters, notes, advertisements—anything to prove this is what I did, or thought I did, or wanted to do, or intended—in case I agree to something I didn’t intend…. Not, I suppose, that it would matter…. But this! This is clear. I have the signed, initialed, and stamped officiated and official Orange letter of receipt verifying that, yes, indeedy, I returned the Live Box last August and ended the three month trial sale and cancelled my service. I also have my bill from Orange and my bank statement showing they continued to bill me for another four months at the non-sale price. Voilà!
Meanwhile, the line hasn’t moved. Everything takes forever. People in wedge could speed things up if they went into the store and browsed and knew what they wanted when it was their turn, but if they did, they’d lose their place in wedge. So they don’t, meaning when it is their turn, they don’t know what they want—or worse, they do know what they want, but the store doesn’t have it, and worst, never will. The result is people do not begin to browse until it’s their turn to be served by a salesperson—and while they are browsing, the salesperson, who could be working with someone else—like me, for example—is working with the browser while s/he figures out what s/he wants, changes his/her mind, or just plain loses it. Then, once a decision has been made, the same salesperson writes up the sale and passes the customer on to the next salesperson, who writes the sale up again, while another person goes off in search of the product, which sometimes they actually have.
One guy, I notice, is on his cell phone, standing next to a customer, saying nothing to the customer or the phone. He’s been doing this for twenty minutes, so now there’s only one salesperson working the wedge. There are no chairs, stools or benches—old people, crippled, insane, and those going insane, all have to stand and wait in the wedge.
One hour later, I’m still in wedge, clutching my papers like a prescription for Vicodin, two people away from seeing a salesperson—unless they all suddenly go on a synchronized break. The woman with a cane, behind me, is faltering. In the U.S., I’d give her my spot, but here, in France, God knows what she wants—to rewire a twenty-five room château—and I’ll be here until Thursday. As usual, none of this seems to bother anyone, except me.
I’m now number one in the wedge. The guy on the cell phone is finally speaking to someone on the phone. The customer next to him looks comatose. The wedge behind me is longer and wider than when I first arrived. The number of people working the floor has varied from three to six, depending on the time, breaks, and if/when this guy ever gets off the phone, which by some miracle of thought, or prayer, or divine intervention, he does. It’s a race between this guy filling out paperwork for the comatose customer and the woman filling out paperwork for the lady who has changed her mind three times over which phone to buy, to see who will draw me. Amazingly, it’s the guy.
“Bonjour, Monsieur,” I say.
“Bonjour, Monsieur,” he says.
“J’ai une problem.”
“Ouiiiii….” Already he senses trouble.
“L’année dernière je retour le Live Box ici…” Last year I return the Live Box here, and I show him the papers with the signed, initialed, and stamped received notice, proving they have the Live Box, and I don’t.
“Ouiiiiiii….” We’re both holding the papers, neither of us willing to let go.
“Mais en novembre je recevoir une facture pour le Live Box, et le banc payee le facture pour quatre mois apres.” But in November I receive a bill for the Live Box, and the bank pay the bill for four months after,” and I show him the bill from Orange and the automatic deductions taken from my account.
“Ouiiiiiiii….”
Then I say the hopefully magic words, “Je voudrais le reimbursement?
“Oui.”
Is he kidding? Is it really going to be this simple. He turns to his computer, taps in my former internet account number, Live Box number, phone number, and maybe my IQ or DNA code, and in seconds confirms, Yes, I returned the Live Box, and, yes, they continued to bill me, and, yes, they owe me a refund. Holy cow! He picks up his phone and automatically calls a number his phone knows by heart, the same number he must have dialed for the comatose customer before me. I remember Eric when he set me up with the Live Box, and how he had to wait on the phone more than twenty minutes to get someone at Orange to help him—and this is worse.
I’m at Orange. This guy works for Orange—and he’s calling the same number Eric called. There is no inside line, no direct line for employees working with customers in the Orange store. All calls from everyone—an employee in Quimper or someone from Vladivostok—go through the same number. I know, because after fifteen minutes, I ask.”
“Monsieur, avez-vous une numéro direct?
He glares at me.
I guess not, and from what I can hear, which I can, because he placed the phone on speaker, there’s no, ‘Your call is very important to us.’ I don’t know if that’s better or worse than in the U.S, though it’s certainly more honest.
Ten minutes more and someone answers. He explains the situation to the person on the other end, writes something down, and disconnects. He enters that something into the computer, turns to me, and says, “Bon. C’est fini.”
“J’ai une reimbursement?”
“Oui.”
“Quand?” When?
He shrugs.
It took two hours, but I have confirmation that I returned the Live Box and a promise of reimbursement sometime in the unknown future. What I don’t have is this year’s internet connection that I promised Donna I’d get. All I know is I’m never doing this again.
The next day I drive to Loscoat to see Eric, but he isn’t there. Manu, the Buddha-faced guy, is. I know this immediately because when he sees me, computer and power cord with adaptor plug in hand, his Buddha face falters, and he looks longingly at the back door, which is closed.
“Bonjour,” I say.
“Bonjour, Marc.”
I ask him about the past year, his life, family, the business—its third year of operation—the weather, everything I can think of and know how to say, to put him at ease, all of which makes him more edgy. Like who is this guy and why does he want to know all these things about me? Finally, I explain why I’m there, and as I do, his Buddha-face returns to normal: this is something he understands.
“L’année dernière je loue le Live Box et tout marche bien. Cette année je prefer achete une modem.” Last year I rent the Live Box and all work well. This year I prefer buy a modem. Instead of keeping it for the summer only, I’ll keep it year-round. It’s twenty-five euros a month, between four and five hundred dollars a year, but it’s good for the renters, and better for me: I won’t have to change my password every year, and I’ll never have to go back to Orange. Ever!
Manu recommends I buy a Netgear modem, which I do. He recommends it by taking it from the shelf and putting it in my hand. Then, either because Eric told him or he can plainly see for himself that I don’t know anything, he downloads the software, sets up the computer and modem, and large-prints the new password clearly and simply, purposely not using French curly-cue script so I can read it without my glasses. He even calls the phone company, waits the requisite twenty minutes—which is five minutes faster than the poor guy in the Orange store—and authorizes Orange to begin internet service at my house.
Like Eric the previous year, Manu shows me where to plug the phone line and power line into the modem—and he plugs the power line into the slot in the modem right there, figuring it’s one less possible problem for him to deal with. Unlike the previous year, he shows me four almost invisible icons on the modem and writes down their function: power; wifi; line; internet. All four lights need to be green. If power and/or wifi is red the problem is the modem. If line or internet is red the problem is the telephone. All of this is done with minimal conversation.
When he’s finished, he charges me for the modem and sends me home, telling me the line will be connected in three or four days. I spent ninety minutes with him, where he downloaded the software and set everything up, including the twenty minute call to Orange, and he didn’t charge me anything for his time. It’s a business model I wish they used in the U.S.
I drive back to the house, thrilled. I’ve got a refund—or a promise of a refund—from Orange and set-up the internet so I’ll never have to set it up again. Last Time has become one of the mantras of my life—last bed, roof replacement, car, paint job…. Some times, Last Time is inexplicably comforting.
I plug in the modem as Manu explained. The power cord is already in place, so that’s easy. I plug the phone into the modem and watch as slowly, miraculously, one after the other, the four lights on the modem turn green, until the third one—line—flickers and turns red.
Manu said three or four days, so I wait.
On the seventh day, I explain to Manu that the line light was still red, which means there’s a problem with the telephone, which brings me back to Orange. Manu asks me lots of questions, none of which I’d understand in English. Finally, in frustration or pity or hope for a better life, he says, “Je voudrais un rendez-vous chez vous aujourd’hui, cet après-midi.” Holy cow! He’s coming to my house after lunch.
In the U.S., the only doctor who still makes house calls is the coroner. Here the computer guy does. In the U.S., I can’t even get the refrigerator fix-it guy I’ve hired and will pay beaucoup dollars to show up on the day and time he swears he will. Here, the sales guy—like the guy from Best Buy, who sold me my computer system, drops by my house to see how I’m doing. Only I didn’t even buy a system from Manu. I bought a less than $100 modem. Something is not working—is red—and Manu is coming to my house, probably not after his lunch, but cutting it short.
Sure enough, at 1:35, he knocks on the door.
“Entrez, entrez,” I say, either telling him to enter or we’re about to eat. “Une boisson,” I ask—a drink?—probably complicating things.
He declines food and drink and asks to see the modem. “Le modem?”
I lead him to the TV/sitting room and show him the three glowing green lights and the flashing red.
“Votre ordinateur?”
I lead him up the stairs to my second floor study and show him the computer. He turns it on, and takes out his phone… Merde… This time, though, it only takes him ten minutes to get through to Orange. I don’t know what he says or does, but while he’s on the phone, the icon on the computer screen with a giant red X on it disappears. I run down the stairs and see the red light is gone, and four bright, beaming, glowing green lights are blinking at me.
I run back up the stairs to tell Manu, but he already knows. I thank him profusely, “Merci, merci, merci beaucoup,” and I offer to pay him for his time and expertise. “Combien pour tout, pour tout le travail?”
“Non, non, normal,” he says, and gets out of there before anything else can go wrong. But nothing does.
A week later I give him a bottle of twelve-year-old Wild Turkey and thank him again profusely, “Merci, merci beaucoup.” And every time I pass the store, I do the same. I wave and call, “Bonjour,” and add with a smile, “Tout est marche bien,” all is work well. I buy all my computer supplies from Eric and Manu even though they are slightly more expensive than the chain stores. For their sake and mine, I want these guys around.
Two weeks later, I’m back at the Orange store in Quimper. Madame P—Yvonne—wants to return the phone I bought for her last year. God knows how she is going to do this, but I know she will. She wants me to go with her to: (1) verify I bought the phone there, though the receipt clearly shows that, and (2) to help her select a new one, which since I selected the wrong one the first time, seems odd to me.
We enter the wedge and wait. While we’re waiting, the guy who helped me with the refund sees me and falters. Actually, literally. He doesn’t even have the heart to hide it. To put him at ease, I walk over to him and say, “Pas moi,” not me. “Je suis ici avec mon amie,” I am here with my friend, and point to Madame P.
“Bon,” he says. “Merci.”
Little does he know that in an hour or two, he’s going to wish he was dealing with me. I might be incomprehensible, but I’m a pushover, as I have zero ability to retort, question, or respond, and I don’t know the rules or my rights, but Yvonne does, and by the time we leave the store with her new phone—which he discounted twice—he never, ever wants to see either of us again.
We cross the cathedral square and sit at a café and eat ice cream. She has a new phone she knows how to use, and I have the internet. It doesn’t get much better than that. Unfortunately, that’s the truth, but here’s the strangest thing: I have a massive sense of accomplishment…. It’s one of the things I like most about living in France. In the U.S., I give up or ask Bob or pay someone. In France, I do it myself—or try to. In the U.S., I get frustrated and angry that things don’t work as I want, or as I think they should, and my blood pressure goes up and probably takes years off my life. In France, my sense of accomplishment increases my sense of well-being and hopefully, I think, adds years.
NEWS ABOUT MY NEW BOOK,
Bonjour, Au Revoir, I’m Finally, Finally French
First and foremost, I want to thank the following people for offering me (or trying to find) an agent and/or publisher: Marion Abbott, Kim Addonizio, Brenda Athanus, Michael Briseno, Carol Corrody, Nikki Diefenderfer, Sophie Picon, Jack Rochester, Carrie Schwartz, Norbert Uzeka, and Michele Williams. I followed up on every contact. The book is currently with three publishers and two agents. If no agent agrees to represent it and no publisher buys it by the end of the year, I’m going to look into Amazon, the sixth largest publisher in the U.S. I’ll keep you posted.
Meanwhile, (not quite) Mastering the Art of French Living is approaching 1,000 reviews on Amazon. As of this writing it has 948. If you’ve read it and haven’t reviewed it yet, please consider doing so, as that’s a milestone I’d be happy to greet.
I’m also very happy and very available to zoom with book clubs, Alliance Française chapters, and any other legal group, enterprise, organization, or gang. I have plenty of time, and as all writers will tell you, there’s nothing we do better than find pleasant things to do instead of writing.
If you’d like to contact me, I can be reached at:
Email: mark@markgreenside.com
Web site: www.markgreenside.com
Facebook author page: facebook.com/markgreensideauthor
Amazon author page: amazon.com/author/markgreenside
Please, feel free to share this newsletter with anyone. If you’d like to read previous newsletters, they are available on my website and Facebook.
Thank you. Be careful out there, and be well.
Yours Sincerely,
Mark
Copyright © 2024 Mark Greenside
Illustrations by Kim Thoman