A friend told me of a great welcome he received recently when on holiday in Spain.
Due to the excellent road networks in most of Europe, it’s not unusual to find people that drive down to the sun each year rather than catch a plane. Given our dismal summer, my friend decided to do just that.
After a long and uneventful drive, as they crossed from France into Spain the rainy weather immediately cleared and out came the sun.
Feeling immediately that life was getting better as the temperatures rose, they drove south to near Valencia. As they approached their exit junction of the motorway, only 5 kilometres from their rented apartment, suddenly the clouds rolled in and a terrific storm erupted – all within less than 5 minutes. The rain was so heavy they had to pull off the road, as visibility was just about zero.
After 15 minutes the rain was still falling heavily but at least they could now see some distance so he pulled away. As he did so his exhaust fell off.
Driving through still torrential rain, they limped to their apartment only a short distance away arriving in a cloud of smoke and sparks all much to the amusement of other holidaymakers on their balconies.
The following morning they called their Europe-wide breakdown company and for reasons that were entirely unclear, found themselves routed to a call centre in Paris who spoke perfect if slightly accented English. After several to-and-fro calls, the call centre called back to say that the local breakdown driver couldn’t find the apartments.
Giving more details of where they were located, my friend asked the call centre where the driver was. Their response was “we’re not sure, we’re speaking to our agency in Madrid”. Trying again, he was told that the agency in Madrid was speaking to their local office in the nearest town to the apartments, and it was they who were speaking to the driver.
Feeling he must have misunderstood something, somewhere, but just desperate to get the vehicle fixed, he awaited the arrival of the breakdown truck.
Eventually after further confusion, numerous telephone calls and a 45 minute delay, the driver arrived. He was clearly exasperated and said in excellent English that he just could not understand why he had not been allowed to call my friend directly. He’d asked for his phone number but was told it was now not policy to give that directly to drivers.
After moaning for some time, and examining the car, the driver said he could not take it to the local town as it was closed for Fiesta, but one around 40 kilometres away would be a better bet. To do that he’d need special permission – so he called his boss and waited.
Several minutes later my friend’s mobile rang. It was the call centre from Paris again telling him the car needed be towed away and asking him for permission to shift it.
Over the next couple of minutes or so, he and the driver stood side-by-side in the street and conducted their conversation through third parties across a telephone link that went from their street, to the local garage, to Madrid, from Madrid to Paris, and from Paris back to the same street.
As the driver hung up his phone, he shook his head sadly and said simply, “Lunatics!”
My friend couldn’t help but agree and before hanging up asked his contact in Paris what the logic was behind this system where everyone ends up phoning everybody else.
“It’s a Europe-wide system that uses the latest technology to improve customer service” came the obviously scripted reply.
My friend advised me to go out and buy shares in mobile phone companies. He may well be right!
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
A healthy health service
Two elderly people were telling me recently of an experience they’d had last year when visiting their family here.
The 83-year-old husband had not been feeling too well for a few days so he went to the doctor waving his E111/EHIC form and saying “I’m an EU citizen - please treat me!”
As the doctor spoke perfect English language was not a problem. After an examination he said that he thought her husband had possibly, but only possibly, had some form of minor stroke and that it would be advisable to see a consultant neurologist for a brain scan just to be sure.
Obviously this was not good news and they asked the doctor if he could give them a letter so they could arrange for the scan and specialist examination when they got home.
After some seconds of confusion, the doctor said he meant here and now and he called the local hospital. When finished, he apologised profusely stating that it would not be possible to get the scan and examination today and that they’d have to wait until tomorrow.
As they left, his parting shot was to ask them if they needed free transport to the hospital.
The following day, having arrived and registered, within 10 minutes the husband was on the table having his scan. After it was finished, they were told results would be coming and they put on their coats and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” asked the puzzled nurse.
When they said ‘home’ she replied “..but don’t you want to wait for your results – they’ll only be about 20 minutes”
Culture shock by this stage started to set in and they sat down. Service wasn’t perfect though because they in fact had to wait about 30 minutes before the consultant entered. Not only did he have hardcopies of the scans, but also a typed formal letter outlining his findings and recommendations. He talked them through everything and handed them copies of all the scans and of course his letter, asking them to pass onto the referring doctor.
In fact the news was good as there was no obvious indication of any problem at all.
It’s worth mentioning perhaps at this stage that this was a public not private health doctor and hospital. This sort of superb service is perhaps not the norm in all continental countries, but it isn’t that unusual either.
What is your experience of healthcare overseas?
The 83-year-old husband had not been feeling too well for a few days so he went to the doctor waving his E111/EHIC form and saying “I’m an EU citizen - please treat me!”
As the doctor spoke perfect English language was not a problem. After an examination he said that he thought her husband had possibly, but only possibly, had some form of minor stroke and that it would be advisable to see a consultant neurologist for a brain scan just to be sure.
Obviously this was not good news and they asked the doctor if he could give them a letter so they could arrange for the scan and specialist examination when they got home.
After some seconds of confusion, the doctor said he meant here and now and he called the local hospital. When finished, he apologised profusely stating that it would not be possible to get the scan and examination today and that they’d have to wait until tomorrow.
As they left, his parting shot was to ask them if they needed free transport to the hospital.
The following day, having arrived and registered, within 10 minutes the husband was on the table having his scan. After it was finished, they were told results would be coming and they put on their coats and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” asked the puzzled nurse.
When they said ‘home’ she replied “..but don’t you want to wait for your results – they’ll only be about 20 minutes”
Culture shock by this stage started to set in and they sat down. Service wasn’t perfect though because they in fact had to wait about 30 minutes before the consultant entered. Not only did he have hardcopies of the scans, but also a typed formal letter outlining his findings and recommendations. He talked them through everything and handed them copies of all the scans and of course his letter, asking them to pass onto the referring doctor.
In fact the news was good as there was no obvious indication of any problem at all.
It’s worth mentioning perhaps at this stage that this was a public not private health doctor and hospital. This sort of superb service is perhaps not the norm in all continental countries, but it isn’t that unusual either.
What is your experience of healthcare overseas?
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Lost in translation
Visiting an old building recently, I saw that one room was occupied by an exhibition of works by a local artist.
These free exhibitions of art are, in my opinion at least, much more commonplace in continental Europe. It's a big subject for discussion and not everyone agrees, but many would argue that there is a greater appreciation of such things in the continental as opposed to English-speaking worlds.
Here art is not usually considered the domain of the intellectual or the pretentious and outside of popular culture as it often is in, say, the UK. In Europe it is far more appreciated by a wider range of people who will go to see such exhibitions enthusiastically and enjoy themselves while at the same time admitting to knowing little of art itself in the formal sense.
It's not unusual to see these exhibitions well attended by younger children and teenagers - a rare sight in many Anglophone countries!
Popping in, I was very impressed by the works that consisted of painted sculptures in various materials. All were explained in detail via text on information panels alongside made of heavy duty plastic that must have been created at some expense. As per the norm overseas, the explanations were multi-lingual and in this case comprised four languages including, of course, English.
I happened to start with the largest, most prestigious piece in the very centre of the large room. Admiring it for a few seconds, I glanced at the explanatory panel alongside, the opening sentence of which read;
"I created this work to capture the scum of this room"
I stepped hastily back looking for trapdoors and springs. To my relief I saw nothing and I read the sentence again. No, I was not dreaming. Did this mean my long-held views about continental artists and their relationships with the public were all wrong?
Looking at the other languages on the board, I saw that they in the same place had the word "sounds" not "scum".
I decided to point this out to one of the staff. His first reaction was essentially that I must be mistaken and although he spoke English, he did not know the meaning of the word "scum". Once he grasped the issue, he also realised that these boards could not now be changed as the cost would be too high and it couldn't be done before the exhibition was due to shut down anyway.
As we left I said goodbye and joked that "the scum are now leaving". Sadly he didn't contradict me.
These free exhibitions of art are, in my opinion at least, much more commonplace in continental Europe. It's a big subject for discussion and not everyone agrees, but many would argue that there is a greater appreciation of such things in the continental as opposed to English-speaking worlds.
Here art is not usually considered the domain of the intellectual or the pretentious and outside of popular culture as it often is in, say, the UK. In Europe it is far more appreciated by a wider range of people who will go to see such exhibitions enthusiastically and enjoy themselves while at the same time admitting to knowing little of art itself in the formal sense.
It's not unusual to see these exhibitions well attended by younger children and teenagers - a rare sight in many Anglophone countries!
Popping in, I was very impressed by the works that consisted of painted sculptures in various materials. All were explained in detail via text on information panels alongside made of heavy duty plastic that must have been created at some expense. As per the norm overseas, the explanations were multi-lingual and in this case comprised four languages including, of course, English.
I happened to start with the largest, most prestigious piece in the very centre of the large room. Admiring it for a few seconds, I glanced at the explanatory panel alongside, the opening sentence of which read;
"I created this work to capture the scum of this room"
I stepped hastily back looking for trapdoors and springs. To my relief I saw nothing and I read the sentence again. No, I was not dreaming. Did this mean my long-held views about continental artists and their relationships with the public were all wrong?
Looking at the other languages on the board, I saw that they in the same place had the word "sounds" not "scum".
I decided to point this out to one of the staff. His first reaction was essentially that I must be mistaken and although he spoke English, he did not know the meaning of the word "scum". Once he grasped the issue, he also realised that these boards could not now be changed as the cost would be too high and it couldn't be done before the exhibition was due to shut down anyway.
As we left I said goodbye and joked that "the scum are now leaving". Sadly he didn't contradict me.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
No Grape Left Unpicked (part 2)
by guest blogger Sami
It all started off so well: an easy drive through the French countryside, snowy peaks a background to the vined hills of the Jurancon region of the Pyrenees, just me and my stylish and somewhat temperamental Citroen BX, a tent, some clothes and canned goods. I daydreamed of picking grapes in the fields, sun on my back, a fresh mountain breeze cooling the air and French country maidens singing while we all worked at a leisurely pace.
Unfortunately, for all of these delicious things to occur, I first had to find the bloody vineyard.
This was proving more difficult than I had thought, and to make matters worse, it had begun to pour with heavy rain. I stopped every once in a while to ask a stony faced local where in God's name I was? However, my distinct lack of perfect French meant they often thought I was actually asking what God's name was and, needless to say, many of them beat a hasty retreat.
Some half an hour later I found the campsite and vineyard. I stepped out of my igloo the next morning to behold the cold mountain dawn with a grimace. The car wouldn't start very easily. I thought nothing of it, putting the problem down to the coldness of the day. Finally it kicked in and I set off at a sturdy pace. At the top of the first steep hill, surrounded by nothing but fields, the car came to a spluttering halt.
Pause. Try again. No response.
I tried to stay positive - it had stopped raining during the night and I drank in the blue sky like a tonic to soothe my growing problems. Then I got out of the car in order to hail a passer-by...
TUNE IN NEXT WEEK FOR MORE IN PART 3...
Monday, November 10, 2008
The joy of shopping
I hate shopping. Well, that's not strictly true.
Like many people I enjoy shopping for specifics or special items, looking in specialist shops in chic city centres etc. What I enjoy far less, though perhaps 'hate' is going too far, are those expeditions to supermarkets to 'stock up' on the basics.
Yes, it is a necessary evil and I know I shouldn't moan.
Even so, some things infuriate me. One of those is the bland 'muzak' played over the PA systems.
I'm sure some psychologist somewhere has proven at vast expense that this encourages shoppers to spend more via 'creating the mood' though I have never quite understood how playing 'Espana Por Favor' over the PA system in a northern European supermarket in late October is meant to achieve anything other than to make shoppers feel miserable. Maybe they had a special on Spanish wine that day.
This though is a big difference between the English-speaking world and continental Europe. In the UK for example, it is very rare to hear foreign-language songs played over the system. In Europe though, particularly in recent years, supermarkets have tried to ditch the traditional bland background 'piano lounge music' for something a little more modern and, I presume, inspirational. They're trying to appeal to those younger family shoppers.
That's where they've hit a snag because English language pop songs have, for better or worse, dominated the global music scene now for decades.
So, it's now fairly commonplace to hear large numbers of English language songs played over these systems abroad and they're no longer restricted either to things such as "Mull of Kintyre" as the supermarkets have finally grasped that the 1970s have passed.
All so far so good perhaps, but this 'modernisation' of background music coupled with the fact that many of the people selecting them perhaps speak rather less English than they thought, can lead to some bizarre events.
Recently in a local supermarket they started playing some rap-music tracks. As they started playing I remember thinking that the lyrics of one track seemed to be about gang warfare and slaughter. I presume the supermarket had some 2-for1 deals on Uzis going.
That though was as nothing compared to track 2. The lyrics as far as I could tell consisted only of two sentences endlessly repeated and both consisting of expletives broadly relating in some details to what the singer planned to do to his woman next time he met her. I suppose it was some sort of love song of its type.
Now the funny thing was that I passed a mature local woman pushing her trolly along the aisle and I am sure she was humming the song and presumably trying to master the words.
Ah well, it made the shopping trip more entertaining than usual. I only wish I could be present when the woman above demonstrates some of her new vocabulary to her English-speaking friends!
Like many people I enjoy shopping for specifics or special items, looking in specialist shops in chic city centres etc. What I enjoy far less, though perhaps 'hate' is going too far, are those expeditions to supermarkets to 'stock up' on the basics.
Yes, it is a necessary evil and I know I shouldn't moan.
Even so, some things infuriate me. One of those is the bland 'muzak' played over the PA systems.
I'm sure some psychologist somewhere has proven at vast expense that this encourages shoppers to spend more via 'creating the mood' though I have never quite understood how playing 'Espana Por Favor' over the PA system in a northern European supermarket in late October is meant to achieve anything other than to make shoppers feel miserable. Maybe they had a special on Spanish wine that day.
This though is a big difference between the English-speaking world and continental Europe. In the UK for example, it is very rare to hear foreign-language songs played over the system. In Europe though, particularly in recent years, supermarkets have tried to ditch the traditional bland background 'piano lounge music' for something a little more modern and, I presume, inspirational. They're trying to appeal to those younger family shoppers.
That's where they've hit a snag because English language pop songs have, for better or worse, dominated the global music scene now for decades.
So, it's now fairly commonplace to hear large numbers of English language songs played over these systems abroad and they're no longer restricted either to things such as "Mull of Kintyre" as the supermarkets have finally grasped that the 1970s have passed.
All so far so good perhaps, but this 'modernisation' of background music coupled with the fact that many of the people selecting them perhaps speak rather less English than they thought, can lead to some bizarre events.
Recently in a local supermarket they started playing some rap-music tracks. As they started playing I remember thinking that the lyrics of one track seemed to be about gang warfare and slaughter. I presume the supermarket had some 2-for1 deals on Uzis going.
That though was as nothing compared to track 2. The lyrics as far as I could tell consisted only of two sentences endlessly repeated and both consisting of expletives broadly relating in some details to what the singer planned to do to his woman next time he met her. I suppose it was some sort of love song of its type.
Now the funny thing was that I passed a mature local woman pushing her trolly along the aisle and I am sure she was humming the song and presumably trying to master the words.
Ah well, it made the shopping trip more entertaining than usual. I only wish I could be present when the woman above demonstrates some of her new vocabulary to her English-speaking friends!
Thursday, November 06, 2008
A Bad Day
I'd arrived at an impressive office block for a long-standing meeting arrangement.
As per good professional standards, I was exactly 5 minutes early when I reported to the young woman on reception and asked for my contact. She picked up her telephone to 'phone upstairs'.
Some experiences are universal. Even if an expat can't speak the local language and can only hear one side of the telephone conversation, one can ALWAYS tell when the 'party upstairs' isn't expecting you. I started to see the telltale sympathetic glances from the receptionist as she listened to what she was being told.
Still, to her credit she kept a straight face as she put the telephone down and told me in faultless almost unaccented English that they'd be with me in a few minutes. Directing me to the waiting area of corporate chairs, she also courteously pointed out where the toilets were in case I needed them.
15 minutes later there was no sign of action. So I walked back to the desk to check progress and it was immediately clear that she had entirely forgotten who I was in that vast epoch of a quarter of an hour since we'd last spoken. After reminding her, she dutifully phoned upstairs again.
"Sorry, they're running a bit late but they'll be with you soon. Please take a seat and over on the right there are the toilets if you need them".
Politely declining for a second time the use of their toilet facilities, I went back to the seats a little self-consciously. Perhaps it was something in my walk that made her so keen to ensure I knew where the toilets were? More annoyingly, her references to the toilets were now making me wonder if I did need them.
After another 10 minutes, and starting to become a little irritated, I walked past the reception desk and said that I'd be standing outside on the pavement to enjoy the beautiful sunny day. She nodded and said she'd fetch me when "you're needed".
Feeling peeved and a little like the schoolboy waiting for the call into the headmaster's office, I stepped outside onto the pavement.
The building was in the city centre. It was a truly beautiful day and as is normal on the continent, people were taking advantage of it. A row of small restaurants and pavement cafs across the road were busy even though it was mid-morning. I wondered where all these people were coming from and just who was left manning the offices and shops around me given everyone seemed to be out drinking coffee in the cafs.
It may have been uncharitable, but I started to wonder if the person I was waiting for was sitting right now at one of the tables.
That was when I saw it. Walking along the other side of the road, just in the gutter area, came a man. As he walked alongside the pavement seating areas of the cafes, every few steps he would pause, then hurl several sentences of non-specific obscenities at the tables nearest to him. He'd then walk a few more steps, then stop and repeat the process.
Now you may be thinking that this was no big deal - perhaps you can see that any day of the week in your local high street. Two things made this very different though.
Firstly, the man concerned was not a street person and he was stone cold sober as far as I could tell. He was very well dressed in an expensive looking business suit and he could have just stepped out of a boardroom meeting. Secondly, and even more extraordinary, he was an Englishman and venting in his best Anglo-Saxon to the locals.
This surreal scene was captivating. What on earth was the cause of his rant? Could it be a love tryst gone wrong? Corporate betrayal or a failed business deal perhaps? My mind dreamt up numerous unlikely possibilities as the man walked down the road into the distance, haranguing as he went.
"He's having a bad day".
I jumped in shock - it was the receptionist from the building who had appeared at my shoulder.
"Just to say they're still not ready for you. They say they won't keep you much longer. In the meantime there's a drinks dispenser upstairs and don't forget the toilets"
I glanced back down the road to where the ranting businessman was rapidly disappearing into the distance. I couldn't help but wonder if he'd appreciate some company...
As per good professional standards, I was exactly 5 minutes early when I reported to the young woman on reception and asked for my contact. She picked up her telephone to 'phone upstairs'.
Some experiences are universal. Even if an expat can't speak the local language and can only hear one side of the telephone conversation, one can ALWAYS tell when the 'party upstairs' isn't expecting you. I started to see the telltale sympathetic glances from the receptionist as she listened to what she was being told.
Still, to her credit she kept a straight face as she put the telephone down and told me in faultless almost unaccented English that they'd be with me in a few minutes. Directing me to the waiting area of corporate chairs, she also courteously pointed out where the toilets were in case I needed them.
15 minutes later there was no sign of action. So I walked back to the desk to check progress and it was immediately clear that she had entirely forgotten who I was in that vast epoch of a quarter of an hour since we'd last spoken. After reminding her, she dutifully phoned upstairs again.
"Sorry, they're running a bit late but they'll be with you soon. Please take a seat and over on the right there are the toilets if you need them".
Politely declining for a second time the use of their toilet facilities, I went back to the seats a little self-consciously. Perhaps it was something in my walk that made her so keen to ensure I knew where the toilets were? More annoyingly, her references to the toilets were now making me wonder if I did need them.
After another 10 minutes, and starting to become a little irritated, I walked past the reception desk and said that I'd be standing outside on the pavement to enjoy the beautiful sunny day. She nodded and said she'd fetch me when "you're needed".
Feeling peeved and a little like the schoolboy waiting for the call into the headmaster's office, I stepped outside onto the pavement.
The building was in the city centre. It was a truly beautiful day and as is normal on the continent, people were taking advantage of it. A row of small restaurants and pavement cafs across the road were busy even though it was mid-morning. I wondered where all these people were coming from and just who was left manning the offices and shops around me given everyone seemed to be out drinking coffee in the cafs.
It may have been uncharitable, but I started to wonder if the person I was waiting for was sitting right now at one of the tables.
That was when I saw it. Walking along the other side of the road, just in the gutter area, came a man. As he walked alongside the pavement seating areas of the cafes, every few steps he would pause, then hurl several sentences of non-specific obscenities at the tables nearest to him. He'd then walk a few more steps, then stop and repeat the process.
Now you may be thinking that this was no big deal - perhaps you can see that any day of the week in your local high street. Two things made this very different though.
Firstly, the man concerned was not a street person and he was stone cold sober as far as I could tell. He was very well dressed in an expensive looking business suit and he could have just stepped out of a boardroom meeting. Secondly, and even more extraordinary, he was an Englishman and venting in his best Anglo-Saxon to the locals.
This surreal scene was captivating. What on earth was the cause of his rant? Could it be a love tryst gone wrong? Corporate betrayal or a failed business deal perhaps? My mind dreamt up numerous unlikely possibilities as the man walked down the road into the distance, haranguing as he went.
"He's having a bad day".
I jumped in shock - it was the receptionist from the building who had appeared at my shoulder.
"Just to say they're still not ready for you. They say they won't keep you much longer. In the meantime there's a drinks dispenser upstairs and don't forget the toilets"
I glanced back down the road to where the ranting businessman was rapidly disappearing into the distance. I couldn't help but wonder if he'd appreciate some company...
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
No Grape Left Unpicked
by guest blogger Sami
When picking grapes it's surprising to remember that wine and the agricultural work that goes with it has been around since before the ancient Roman civilisation. The methods used to pick, or rather cut, grapes from the vine are startling in this modern day and age.
To make matters worse it seems that nobody but me is of the same opinion! At least not amoungst the vendangeurs and vendangesses who rely on the grape picking season for the bulk of their income.
I should explain.
During the months of September until November the people of France gather in large numbers to perform the vendange. Roughly translated as: the cutting of bunches of grapes from the vines that line large tracts of French countryside, as part of a team up to fifty people strong. The team members come from all over France, often from regions which have no vinyards at all. In fact, it would appear that the only link many of them have to the vines in their real lives is the consumption of the grapes by-product: wine.
I joined these sometimes alcoholic and often extremely friendly folk as part of their countrywide migration, to find out who, what, where and mostly...WHY?
FIND OUT MORE IN PART TWO...
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