A tale of two clerks

 

I went to the village poste to mail a book to a New York friend.

A woman, probably in her late 40s early 50s, was behind the counter. She growled at me to stay behind the desk. I was behind the desk that separated the counter from the customers.

I asked if I needed a custom declaration. The book was in a white document envelope.

"Oui."

I asked if I could have one.

"Non." After more silence than was necessary, "Get it from the machine."  There are several machines in the poste.

"Which one?"

A wave of her hand to the side where there were two machines. 

I went to the wall and chose one. However, going through the menu, I could not find anything about border declarations. When I went to the window again, the grumpy, growly woman had disappeared.

I went to another window with a woman about the same age. 

"May I just help this man, and I'll be with you," she said.

We went to the machine together and we worked through several layers of choices. "It's not intuitive," she said. All conversations were in French, but the second woman spoke slowly without growling. She may even have been smiling if her eyes were any indication. She said she wished she could speak English as I spoke French. The expectation for Anglos to speak French at any level is rather low, but I thanked her and told her that learning French was one of the hardest things I've ever done. She admitted it was hard.

"Those verbs," I said.

She rolled her eyes in an O là là manner.

Together we worked through the multi screens, printed out what we needed, went to another counter to make sure the forms were put on the envelope properly. Since it was a new procedure, she apologized for taking the time. I asked her name.

"Sophie?"

"Are you the only Sophie?" I had a plan.

"I want to get her some flowers," I said to Rick as we walked towards the center of the village.

I found a Cyclamen, a pretty pink. I debated having Galdric, the florist, deliver it, but he has a hurt ankle and the work of getting the car and driving through the convoluted tiny village streets for a five-minute distance, didn't seem worth it to ask him, although I knew he would. I wrote a note in French, "Thank you for your help," and my name which they stuck on the gift paper.

Rick and I walked back to the poste. Inside, although there was a line at Sophie's counter, but I walked to the front, put the plant down, apologized to the people in line, told Sophie merci and left as her eyes reacted. I suspect she smiled, but again, those masks.

I've taught customer service. I still love seeing people who do it well, while itching to train those that don't. If I'd videoed the two women, I'd have had a perfect case history of how to and how not to. 

What I do hope is Sophie will tell her co-workers a client gave her flowers in appreciation for being helpful and pleasant.