A Tale of Two Companies

I'm probably making up statistics here, but one of my business professors emphasized the importance of making one's customers happy with the following "fact"--

Satisfied customers tell on average, four people. Disgruntled, mistreated customers tell eleven. And will raise their voices loudly, in the store and in the street and most certainly, on the internet.

I'm going to break the average and tell an equal number of people.

Last week, I had problems with two different computer programs. The customer service responses I got were as distinct as they come. The purchased software company was the loser; the company with the least to gain from good customer service won, hands down.

Let's talk about Norton/Symantec and Apple, shall we?

Norton/Symantec gives their customers an (un?)intentional runaround with the online support options. Phone support is long-distance and they definitely hire English-as-a-second-language technicians. Which is wonderful. But here's a tip for all those companies going for the brilliant Indian computer geeks: Training. Training. Training. Because just because you can SPEAK a language does not mean you can COMMUNICATE in that language. And the point is, clients call a help desk for support. Not to be snidely patronized. Even if the client is a moron, the support staff are supposed to act like it's no big deal.

Example? Try this: "Before we start, can you make sure you downloaded the software, Mr. Smith?" rather than, "So if you bought a television at the store and didn't bother to take it home, is it the store's fault that you can't watch your favorite show?"

Analogies don't work so well cross-culturally.

So Norton screwed up, beautifully. I renewed my subscription, downloaded what they told me to, paid my credit card bill and forgot all about it. That was last year; I don't know why I bothered to renew so early. So when my initial subscription ran out last week, I was confused. I have a confirmation email and some fifty odd dollars missing from my account saying that, yes, I have coverage with them through October 2009.

I try the online help, which, after much rigamarole, puts me through to a dude who offers "remote access." He'll get on my computer and fix the problem. Sweet.

Except he doesn't fix the problem, just starts snooping around on my desktop, trying to close windows without asking (what if I was working on my masterpiece and hadn't saved it yet?) and trying to open things that are clearly not Norton. Cherry on top: he's trying to find the solution to my problem using the "help" button in the Norton Utility. (They PAY people to do this job?) I can do that without his remote snooping, thank you very much. So I cut off his access, which prompts a self-righteous snort from the far off technician.

Next step, email. But there is no email address, just a form you fill out. But the information I need to send the email (those dang asterisked boxes) is missing from my confirmation email. Foiled again.

Third try, phone support. But it's long distance. So I have my parents in the States call, which is when the whole foreign-language tech issues start up.

Norton doesn't answer their emails within 24 hours, they don't answer questions, they don't provide support and they still have my money. And I have no anti-virus. It was a RENEWAL. How could this possibly be so difficult?
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Cut to Apple. I opened iTunes the other day and it said corrupted, damaged something-or-other and the next thing I know, I'm staring at an iTunes minus all my purchased music and all my playlists. This makes me want to cry.

I immediately email Apple, which, while offering online help prompts in their email fields, also allows you to actually send them an email even if some of the fields are blank. I feel like I'm settling for too little, maybe, but this fills me with glee.

Rose, from Customer Support, emails me within the day, letting me know what I should do to search for my music on my hard drive, reminding me I need to do regular backups, and basically giving me idiot-proof instructions for what I need to do. Also, I can reply to the email and have their office hours.

I do reply after following their instructions and plead my case. Like a teenager at the dentist, I promise to floss regularly if they'll just skip the fluoride this once. Please, restore my purchased music, please? I'll backup from now on. Cross my heart. But I know it's a long shot, and am honest. Some of my purchased music was way, way lost because it was purchased back on another account, when I had a Mac, before the hard drive ate everything. That's kind of too much to ask. Like another commenter on an Apple board somewhere on the internet said, (and I paraphrase): "Asking iTunes to restore lost music is like having all your cds stolen and then going back to the Virgin Megastore and asking them to replace them. For free."

But, you know what? That's exactly what Apple did. Restored all my available music (that was still in the iTunes store in the version I'd previously purchased). It is an exception, a miracle, a gap in the fabric of time and space, a genius move. Grace, even.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is how to treat your customers. Surprise them with generosity, which in turn ties them with deep cords of affection to your particular brand. I will always taste a bit of bitterness when I hear the words Symantec and Norton uttered near me. And I am currently pining away for a new Apple laptop. If anyone is feeling generous, I'll gladly send my address your way!

Great Saturday

Not a normal Saturday. A little bread making in the works, I decided to go bridesmaid dress shopping while the dough rose. The dress plan was a bust; blue is apparently NOT the fashionable color of the moment in Rio. But instead, I found these beauties, on the advice of a friend who told me to get over my hatred of the sickly sweet scent branding in the store. Once on my feet, it was love at first touch.





Also, I've read "The Little Prince" in three languages, which perfectly justifies a pair of shoes emblazoned with the illustrations. (Ignore the smudges in the picture; Rio's streets are dirty.)

After my recent posting/rant about the difficulties of finding good shoes, I have to give out a huge shout out to the folks at Melissa. Yes, these shoes are made of plastic. But they really are comfortable, and fit all the little aches and nooks of my feet. I spent last night in the woven spider-webby ones, dancing at a "despedida de solteira" and really had no problem. It was like being barefoot! Thank Jesus for people who make comfortable shoes!

I also came home from my little 3 hour spree with the receipt for a washing machine. After four years of washing my clothes by hand, I woke up on Thursday and thought, "Why are you doing this to yourself?" So I researched some prices and models and voila! found the perfect machine at the supermarket! Not only will it wash my things, but it has a nifty function that is supposed to re-use the second rinse cycle water. Environmentally friendly!

So my shopping list that did look like this:

shoes
washing machine
calcium chloride (for cheesemaking)
blue dress

...is now only short the cheese supplies and bridesmaid dress. Given my usual shopping track record, I'm quite pleased.

Report: 900 minutes and not a thing to do

Since those two 70 pound bags didn't get checked directly through to Rio, the long layover apparently being a security issue, I was doubly thankful for a place to store my stuff! I'd made reservations at a recently opened hotel called aloft, which is part of the Starwood hotel chain. I found their site on the internet, and being the only decently priced hotel with a pool, it seemed like the sort of place I had to check out. They answer the phone with over the top peppiness and, yes, Aloha. Aloha!

The second key to the quirky modernity of this place is the lower-case spelling of the name, followed by the retro titles given to all the normal amenities one expects in a hotel: the pool is splash and pumps ambient music underwater, re:fuel is the snack bar, which feels like a chic gas station convenience store. One one side are coffee machines, hot snacks and presumably doughnuts in the a.m., atop well-lit cases of fancy juice drinks, expensive mineral waters and sodas. The case on the other wall is full of sandwiches, fruit cups, and the ubiquitous American protein bars. In the middle sits a tall table with high stools to pull up, dispelling the urge to grab one's food and run, squirrel-like, back to the room.

But I digress. It was obscenely difficult to figure out where one caught the hotel shuttles at the airport but I was finally picked up by a pleasant man driving a spanking new Suburban plastered with the aloft logo. The car is so new it still has that car smell, which reminds me of cat piss. Someone should work on that in the Chevrolet factories. Walking into the lobby, one is greeted by the choice to talk to the good looking gentleman seated behind a small, white donut desk or checking in on what look like the little self-service terminals at airports. I like people. It's painless work checking in and gives me a moment to discern that, yes, in addition to ambient music and the brightest color scheme ever, they've got the scent branding thing going on. It smells like Hawaii? Is this possible?

My room is on the second floor, giving me a chance to take the James Bond elevators with the weird blue tiles that look like water shifting under my feet. The lofted ceilings and huge bed make me really happy, as do the clever unstealable Bliss products in the shower (good move!)and the magazines, including Wired, above the coffee maker. The water bottles are complimentary but the phones look fake and there isn't a hotel guest guide, which means I have to call the desk for any information. But the huge 42" flat screen tv in front of the bed makes up for any minor inconveniences. The safe apparently has an electrical plug, so you can charge your electronics while they're under guard. I’m impressed.

I immediately crash and sleep for hours, waking up to an odd sort of thumping sound. I change clothes and head downstairs to the gym, where I realize the noise is actually the lobby music, which is picking up for the night. I go for a jog on the ellipical machine (a choice my body will make me later regret as I am woefully out of shape!). This is the point where I'm really thankful I'm here and not in the airport...no worries, no baggage watching, the freedom to just totally veg for a few hours.

As I get ready to leave, the front desk sends, aloha!, a man to get my bags and WARM UP THE CAR for me while I check out.

This is where things get even happier for Jenna, because somewhere along the wires, I unintentionally became a Starwood Preferred Guest, meaning the room was free. FREE. FREE.

The nice man at the desk was as confused as I was, but handed over the confirmation and invited me to have a drink at the bar. The w xyz bar. (Try saying that five times, fast.) It was the least I could do, so I joined the small crowd of regulars and actual hotel guests who were enjoying the funky lighting, the wasabi soybeans and chasing the blueberries in their highballs. Had I spent the night here, I envisioned myself crashing on the cool chair in the corner, talking up a couple of strangers to play a game of pool, perhaps just sitting on the decorator sofas and people watching. Which is the whole concept of the hotel, to bring socialization back into the hotel scene. It's not the place for people looking for total privacy, peace and quiet and traditional service. But for people who like design, modernity and the unexpected burst of commercial community, it's a clever option.

All told, this was a great decision and made my stay in Washington so much more relaxing than it might otherwise have been. Should I have another unwanted layover, anywhere, I'm going to be looking for this hotel.

p.s. Check out the website's promotional packages, which are quirky and non-traditional. Who ever heard of a hotel offering girl's night packages, or a movie night rate with a late checkout, two movies and a pizza delivered to the door?

Water water everywhere

The morning spent in a meeting going over the finer points of our Emergency Contingency Plan, it was kind of ironic to find myself on a bus later that afternoon forging flood waters that were washing away smaller vehicles. According to the ECP, I should avoid crossing rushing water by foot or vehicle. But it is too late at this point: there’s no point in getting OUT of the bus, as I imagine all the pedestrian dangers: rabid swimming rat populations, sewage and the occasional floating car setting themselves up as obstacles. It's long, slow going, pretty much everywhere because the city hasn't got a decent drain apparently, anywhere. And the ones that do work go straight to the drainage canals, i.e. rivers, that overflow into the streets and nearby houses. Anyone who has ever visited me knows that the "river" water near the favelas where we lived isn't the sort of thing you'd ever willingly allow to come in contact with your skin. Unless maybe you had a freakish desire to see what radioactive gutter waste would do to improve your complexion.

Since the rain hadn't stopped, I became concerned as we neared the favelas. The last time it rained like this, the flooding was so severe I saw grown men walking in water up to their shoulders. So when the bus stopped in bumper to bumper to bumper traffic on the overpass and a giant lake below us, I made a command decision. I joined a throng of people who gave up on public transportation. We stepped out of our buses and went somewhere, anywhere, on foot. In my case, that was backwards. I'd seen the subway, which in this part of the city is above ground, running. That would be my goal. Get to the next subway station, bypass the floodwaters and return home. A mile later, with my shoes sopping and trying hard not to think about the itchy germs I was now carrying in my jeans (but so very, very thankful I'd decided to wear sneakers instead of flip flops when I left the house), I found myself headed home. On a hill. After seeing homes and businesses fighting off over a half-meter of water today, living on an incline felt pretty nice. Comforting.

I'm a cheater!

A big thanks goes out to all the great ideas for what to do on my fifteen-hour layover. The museums all sound like wonderful places to spend an afternoon...but still have the drawback of being both really far away and nowhere to store my luggage.

The luggage storing factor is really key for me, as I have both my huge purse/computer bag and a probably oversized but still fits in the overhead compartment carryon. With the enhanced security everywhere (and probably more so for Washington in the days leading up to the inauguration), finding somewhere to store one's belongings has become an impossible chore.

That's why I am a cheater. Because when faced with the prospect of either A) dragging sixty pounds of clothes, computer, chocolates and china onto public transportation and then into art exhibitions, or B) doing a shopping spree of the various overpriced stores found in the airport and trying to nap on the floors, I chose option C.

C is the spoiled woman's option.

I found a nearby hotel with a pool, fitness room, television, free wi-fi and plenty of hot water. I figure it is money well spent; I'd spend easily that much at the airport for those massages, wireless access and manicures. I can write, relax, go swimming or run a couple of miles, and be stress-free before my 9 hour flight back to Rio.

So, in a way, I'm choosing the spa Amy suggested...and also Grammy's, as I plan on using at least a few of those hours to write, unencumbered by status announcements.

But right now, I'm off to check the weight on my two really, really stuffed suitcases. They're zipping without too much force, but I think at least one of them might be tipping the scales at 71 pounds, which is one pound too many. So I'm off to finish my packing...but will be posting here in the next 24 hours or so, to let you know how things go...

900 Minutes and Not a Thing to Do Contest!

I cashed in most of my miles to come to the States for Christmas, which was exciting given that tickets were about the price of a used car six months ago. Award travel allowed me to get international tickets for US $61.00 in taxes. Which made me very happy.

Note to self: look more closely at the itinerary next time. Somehow, I'd managed to miss this little detail: I have approximately a 15 hour layover in Washington's Dulles Airport on the way back. From about seven in the morning until ten in the evening.

Now, I've done 4 hour layovers and I once spent 8 hours in the Bogota, Colombia airport. But 15 hours is a bit beyond my imaginative powers right now. Short of watching a full season of the Office or the complete Star Wars movies, I can't think of how I could possibly spend those hours.

So this is a call for ideas. Suggestions for what to do for all that time, besides self-medicating with Tylenol PM and curling up in a corner. There are just a few limitations on your imaginative ideas:

1) Unless I do a spectacular job of packing those 70 pound suitcases, I'm going to have my two carry-on bags with me. They will be heavy and I have arthritis. Please send ideas with a frail, yet energetic, 83 year-old in mind!

2) I don't drive.

3) I don't have $500 for a trip to the spa, unfortunately. My expense budget is limited to $100!


This "contest" is open until Thursday night. I'll choose the best idea before I board my plane and test it out over those long, long hours. The winner will receive a little taste of Brazil in the mail a few weeks later; the rest of my readers will have to content themselves with a description of my experience that will be posted right here on the blog!

Let the brainstorming begin!

Frivolous Feet

Living with chronic disease is no piece of cake. Some people have to watch their ice cream intake, give up wheat bread, swallow a rainbow in a handful of pills throughout the day, submit their bodies to painful but better-than-death procedures and withstand the scorn and hostility of people who don’t understand why that “perfectly healthy” person just pulled up into a disabled parking space. I’m one of those “perfectly healthy” ones, thought not having a car means I don’t have to worry about all those stares.

Today, my two biggest arthritis-based complaints are the following:

I can’t scoop ice cream. Or find a decent pair of shoes.

After a frustrating day of zipping on, zipping off my sexy, tall, heeled, Brazilian black boots in a futile attempt to find something a little more practical, I came home empty-handed. With a guesstimate of my size and width, I said a prayer and ordered something in black from an online merchant. And then, to make me feel better, we had ice cream. Except I had to soften the ice cream in the microwave. Not a sliver budged for me, so I had to let my grandmother scoop out our orange sorbet. My wrist is a wimp.

It’s much easier to find someone to dole out the ice cream. I hate shoe shopping. As a self-proclaimed shoe addict, this is surprising. But you see, I have to pass up the aisles upon aisles full of tempting size sevens, dainty and cleverly detailed, or powerful gladiator heels in shiny patent leather, the sort of shoe you’d love to have the guts to wear in public. 1930’s screen-siren pumps. Something, anything in green. None of those work for me. I get to peer down to the lowest shelf and poke around for the elusive size 10.5, 11. Sometimes, the store only gets in one or two pairs, so sneaky shoppers who can’t make a decision hide the boxes or turn them around so it’s more difficult to see the sizes. Or they simply get there before I do. So the options usually are: the cute but foot-gnawing ugly-stepsister shoe that will NEVER accommodate all ten toes, or the very practical, clunky-heeled, round toe monster that screams “ORTHOTICS! ARTHRITIS! HIDE ME, QUICK!”

My only real winter shoes are the aforementioned black boots, which are surprisingly comfortable and versatile. I think I’ve worn them 6 out of the last 7 days. There was one day I gave in and wore sneakers. But just out running errands. I changed back to the black beauties in the evening!

The problem is genetics. Big feet and rheumatoid arthritis make it darn difficult to find anything worth shoving my feet into for a couple of hours. My closet is full of creations that I've had one-night stands with, guiltily replacing them in their boxes because I couldn't imagine spending another minute with them on my feet. Other shoes are mercilessly beaten to death, worn until they're destroyed. I've been in destruction mode for the last few months and am looking for new shoes in an attempt to postpone the inevitable.

Last night, I actually googled “sexy orthotic shoes.” The most attractive things that popped up, besides seedy ads for really bizarre fetishes, were some boxy wedges with doubled straps. Ooh. Straps. And maybe, just maybe, there was the good luck to find a color choice beyond black and brown. But sold out in the larger sizes. Go figure.

I refuse to wear those plastic shoes with the holes in them. Can’t do it. And vanity still has its hold on me, so I’m stubbornly insisting on shoes that aren’t available for Medicaid reimbursements. Anyone out there interested in partnering up to make cute shoes for people whose feet are old but whose soles are still young? (Couldn’t resist, folks, sorry!)

p.s. Can you guess which of the above shoes is the one I want and which is the one my big toe is rooting for?