A trail of chicken feathers to the police station

A friend of mine told me that her husband called the police after a stray dog wandered onto their yard and attacked their chickens, killing one, injuring a few others, and scaring the rest. I understood his response because I had a similar knee-jerk reaction to contact the police, but I was in France, and in my case, the ''stray dog'' was actually bad customer service at the post office. Or, to be more precise, Chronopost (a relative of DHL). 

The drama started because I had been trying to open an online account with a Belgian bank. Nine months into the process (nine!) I had submitted all the required paperwork and was finally approved for a checking account. The subsequent procedures seemed simple enough: I would receive my ATM card in one envelope and a pin code in another. The ATM card arrived and I eagerly awaited each day's mail for the pin code. Instead of receiving the code itself, I received a letter from my new bank telling me to go to a Point Relais de Chronopost (which can be located in any store that agrees to distribute letters and packages on-site) to get the letter with my pin code. Fortunately, my new bank had chosen a point relais close to my apartment. ''Easy-peasy,'' I thought.

Just before noon that same day, I walked to the point relais and asked for my letter, forgetting that it was almost lunch time. The young man working at the desk politely told me it was impossible. ''Comment ça, impossible?'' I asked. How could he legally prevent me from getting my own mail? He began to talk to me in English and before I could feel  insulted, I realized it was simply because he didn't speak French very well. He explained that his ''patronne'' was at lunch and that she had not yet shown him how to hand a point relais letter to a customer. When I suggested we might be able to figure out the process together, he refused. Eventually I convinced him to rifle through the letters sitting in a pile behind the desk. He looked through them tentatively for a few seconds, and then gave up.

''I need this job,'' he stammered. ''I've been calling my boss all morning and she just yells at me. I don't want to call her again.''

I didn't want my impatience to get him fired, so I said, ''Why don't you give me your boss' number? I'll speak to her directly.'' He saw I wasn't going to leave and began to dial.

When I spoke to the owner, I started with politesse, ''Bonjour Madame, excusez-moi de vous déranger.'' (Hello madame, I'm sorry to disturb you). And then I explained the situation. The woman shrieked into the phone, saying that her empolyee was new, he didn't know how to have me sign the release form, and that she'd be back at 2 pm and that was that. I promised to complain to her superiors, but even in my fury, I saw that there was no alternative but to come back later.

And that is when I walked to the local police station, expecting to obtain some sort of police report that proved she was bad at her job. When I arrived at the Commissariat du 5e arrondissement, the woman at the front desk asked for the purpose of my visit. I slowly explained my story (thinking briefly of Arlo Guthrie losing his mind at the police station in ''Alice's Restaurant''), mentioned how in the US it is illegal to tamper with someone's mail, and was about to continue before she said, ''Why would you leave the US to come here?'' Having deflected my anger with a few more laughs, she suggested I go talk to the woman again, which is exactly what I did.

As soon as I walked into the boutique, I heard the woman ask her employee, ''is that her?'' and he nodded his head in my direction. She launched into me with a barrage of insults. I smiled serenely, handed her my driver's license, and watched her fill out the requisite form. Once I had my letter, I chastized her for the lack of professionalism in her store. At that, she pointed towards the door and ordered me to leave. As I walked towards the exit, she finished with, ''vous êtes malade,'' (''you are crazy'') to which I promptly replied, ''et vous êtes bêtes'' (and you are stupid). With that, she pushed me over the threshold and out the door. I stood and stared at her for a few seconds before turning down a side street.

I was not proud of my behavior in the store, and thought a bit about how and why the situation escalated so rapidly. Hours later, I realized that my rage should have been targeted on my ex-boyfriend, with whom I was dining that night. Instead of thinking about my unresolved feelings towards him, I got into a fight with a stranger. As the hours wore on, I veered from pangs of shame to peels of laughter. ''Did you really try to file a police report?'' I asked myself.

Since then, I've been making an effort to keep my expectations low when it comes to customer service here. And on those days when I need to be coddled, I hop on Skype. From there, I call my US bank, which seems to have an indefatiguable desire to provide gracious service. And if ever I start raising chickens, I'll try to keep my eye out for stray dogs.