But I digress.
Today, I’d like to mention an experience from this weekend while it’s
still fresh in my mind. I recall that I
previously promised to talk about my teaching experiences, but as I’ve already
broken one pledge, so I suppose that discussion can wait a bit longer.
I’d like to focus on my initial experiences with
Taiwanese customer service, which raises some thought-provoking issues about
cultural experiences and expectations. At
least it seems to me.
Anyways, everything started last week when I bought
a new belt at a shop near our apartment. The humidity here had KO’d my new Old
Navy one after a mere three weeks. Leaving
the store, I was fairly excited, because the belt I bought here was 100%
leather, and apparently that means it’s a good one (like from a Gucci cow or
something). Actually, I was also feeling
a bit smug because the store manager told me it was 百分之百的牛皮
(100% genuine leather) and I understood her.
So for $600NT ($20 USD), I had a new (dare I say, fashionable) new leather
belt. Mistake number one.
After wearing my new prize for the first time, I was
dismayed to discover a ring of streaky brownish (albeit eye-catching) leather
stains around the waist of my khaki shorts.
Perhaps a temporary consequence of
‘wearing in’ a new leather belt, my novice mind told me. So I scrubbed the shorts by hand with stain
remover and managed to get most of it out.
Undeterred, I re-donned the belt the following day. Mistake number two.
Repeat stains.
My first thought was that the belt would cover up the stains anyway, so
why make a fuss about it? But then my
inner asshole kicked in and reminded me that I’d just recently dropped $20 on
the already-worn Old Navy belt and already had to replace it. Admittedly not that much money, but it’s the
principle (or so I’m telling myself). So
I grab the evidence, receipt, and my Mandarin phrasebook and embark on my first
ever customer service complaint foray in Asia.
I walk into the store. The clerk is sorting discarded hangers behind
the counter and sees me coming a mile away.
“What do you want?” (not as rude
in Chinese as it sounds in English).
“I want to…exchange this…b…belt.”
“Let me take a look.”
“After I wore them…this stain… [pause]…happened.” She looks
at the shorts, then the belt, then me. “I
have…receipt…brought with me…to here.”
She presses her hands down on the shorts over the
stain. “It seems you already wore this
belt.”
“I wore it.
That’s true.”
“Well, it looks used now. We can’t sell it again, so I’m afraid you can’t
return it.”
My brain tries vainly to shift gears. “I have…receipt…show you…it.”
“Yes, but you already wore the belt.”
“My shorts…they are broken…”
“I’m sorry, I can’t return them like this.”
“Oh.” At this point, I am rendered quite literally
speechless, so my linguistic arsenal depleted, I return home in momentary
defeat.
After stewing briefly in my
communicative futility, I break out my dictionary and grammar book to conjure
up some persuasive sentences of stunning clarity and rhetorical force. In my mind, I see visions of three-piece
suits, pointed negotiations with official Taiwanese trade representatives at a
polished table with sliced fruit wedges and water glasses. I close my dictionary with satisfaction. The clincher—my closing threat, subtle but
sharp: “There seem to be many other stores around here. I don’t think I’ll shop here anymore.”
I return to the shop with renewed confidence. “Hi, I came back.” (She may already have noticed). She looks at me—it may have been a patient
look, but it as easily could have been one of long-suffering, strained
tolerance. Trigger round two of
negotiations. I begin
diplomatically. “I’m a bit unsatisfied with
your last answer.” She blinks. “I don’t understand why I can’t return the
belt. You said it’s because I already
wore it, right?” She nods
patiently. “But how could I know there
was a problem without wearing it?”
She breaks into a lengthy explanation that for me
seemed as polite as it was unintelligible.
All I picked up was her suggestion that perhaps the stain problem would
be less severe if I wore darker pants. “But
I don’t have darker pants.” She adopted
a bemused expression, as though trying earnestly to work out how this further
detail was her problem.
“I’m really sorry, I hope you understand. Have a nice day.” She smiled politely again. Cue end of negotiations. Again, I head for the exit, verbally out-spared.
Only partially deterred, I resorted to drastic
measures and enlisted the help of my incorrigible landlord, Michael. Depending on one’s perspective, this was
either my third miscue or my first wise strategic move. Michael is an affable, well-meaning enough
fellow—a self-professing DINK in his early-fifties who passes his days watching
baseball, learning English, and fixing various ‘problems’ in our apartment
whether they exist or not. But he is
also an intensely-persuasive, forcibly-insistent individual, making him the
perfect candidate to assist me, if an efficient outcome is to be valued above
social delicacy.
So the following afternoon, Michael returns with me
to the shop. Round three. I pray that the visible blanch on the clerk’s
face was a mere byproduct of my nervous imagination. Michael strides right up to the counter.
“My friend would like to exchange this belt.”
She stares at him.
“I know, I told him yesterday that wasn’t possible.” Michael removes the belt and shorts from the
bag and begins an animated conversation with the clerk, little of which I could
comprehend. I caught the word 潮湿 (humidity) several
times, as well as her repeated insistence that 这并不是我们的商品的问题
(this
isn’t a problem with our merchandise).
Michael adopts a slightly more conciliatory tone,
though his voice retains an insistent edge.
“I know, I know…but how was he supposed to know about the weather here? You didn’t tell him. He’s a foreigner.”
My ears perk up.
When traveling outside the U.S., I have striven to maintain a calm
cultural deference and avoid running roughshod over others’ cultural norms with
an air of exceptional American self-importance.
Needless to say, I think I fell a bit short on that front today. But after asking for Michael’s help, I was
not about to again reveal my unpolished Mandarin negotiating chops, especially
if it meant interrupting his undeniably more effective communication.
“It’s not a problem with our merchandise,” the clerk
insists again.
Michael leans forward. “I know, I know, but he’s a foreigner, he
didn’t know. And he’s an American
teacher. He’s teaching our kids proper
English.” His speech becomes more and
more rapid, and I quickly lose him again.
But finally the clerk relents.
She tells us to select a belt made from synthetic material instead, and motions
us upstairs to pick one out. Michael
leads the way with a satisfied smile. “You
should pick two belts, one black and one brown.
You might need to pay a little bit more.
That will make them happy.” I’m
not about to disagree with him, or mention that I hadn’t brought my wallet
along.
I gently suggest a rack of $300NT belts to keep the
total at $600. Michael picks two out,
quickly gauges my approval and then we return to the counter. The clerk forces a smile and begins ringing
them up. She removes the tags, but as
she begins to bag them up, she hesitates and frowns. She glances at me, then turns to
Michael. “These are synthetic, but they
are still mostly leather. They will
probably have the same issue, but it won’t be as noticeable.” At this point, I am ready to just take the
belts and run, but Michael would have none of it, so back upstairs we go.
We soon return with two entirely-synthetic belts and
place them before the clerk. She looks
at me and bites her lip. She points to
the ‘34’ on the tag and explains that these belts are actually only 31
inches. Another sideways look at me. “A bigger size may be better.” Michael grabs me by the elbow and directs me
back upstairs. The clerk follows
us. “Maybe I’d better go with you.” Oh.
God. Get me out of here.
With her help, Michael and I again browse the belt
selection and find two (1 brown, 1 black), 37 (34) inch, synthetic (non-100%
leather) belts. As we proceed to the
service counter, Michael mentions casually that he has a friend who can drill
additional belt loop holes for me if need be.
My eyes shift down to the belt he’d had me try on with its four spare
holes. How much shaved ice does he expect me to consume in the next ten
months? I nod quietly, the perfect picture
of docility.
The clerk rings up the two belts for us. $399NT.
$399NT. Damn. Michael looks at
me. The clerk looks at the belts. I look for the nearest exit. “Michael...” I glance at my feet. “I actually didn’t bring my wallet.”
He reaches for his pocket. “You’ll pay me back when we get home, ok?”
“Of course.” In more ways than one.
He hands her the bills. “Tell her thank-you,” he says, in an
uncomfortably fatherly tone.
“Thank you, thank you a lot” I manage lamely.
On the walk back, I finally ask Michael how he
convinced her. He quickens his
stride. “I told her if you didn’t let
you exchange the belt, I would get the local government involved.”
“You said what?
Michael…”
He reaches for my shoulder. “The customer service…怎么讲(how to put it) attitude in Taiwan is not like America.”
“Well, I know. But—”
“So I had to tell her, to explain her, how it
is. She has to take responsibility for
the product.”
“But what about the weather? The humidity?”
He waves his hand dismissively. “No, if Taiwan wants to advance, to make
progress, they need to change their attitude.
People can’t act like barbarians.
You were right, it was on your side.”
“What?”
“It was on your side.”
“What was?”
“Right. Your
side was. No problem.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
We walked the rest of the way pretty quietly.
I’m still not sure about the belts. I mean, I have them. And I still do think that my request was a
reasonable one. But I am also deeply
conscious that my sense of rightness and fairness is inextricably entwined with
my American upbringing and all the ‘self-evident truths’ about decency and fair
play that my childhood subsumes.
Moreover, the methods for getting what I wanted left me uneasy. Could I have spoken up? Of course.
Should I have? Perhaps. Did I?
No.
In moments like these, living in another culture
makes me uncomfortably aware of how our lives and character consist of a
multitude of seemingly inconsequential interactions that we fumble through on
our way to living. Moments that leave us
thinking Aw, what the hell, that was a fluky
thing and we got on through. But it
sticks with you.
I likely won’t see that store clerk again, at least by
conscious choice. I feel too awkward to
go back there now: too self-conscious, too defensive, but also ashamedly
validated in some small part of me by my ‘cultural’ conquest. Is this soft power? It feels harder than that. And I don’t know where to put these
feelings. It gets me thinking of
post-colonial lit and makes my head and stomach ache as though they are conspiring
against me. But like it or not,
negotiations are over. The ink is
drying. And I signed my name, one way or
another.
