Up until a few months ago, the only Internet option in this village was a pokey dialup. Dropped connections, unreliable phone lines, frequent outages, fried modems. Then France Telecom installed DSL. Hallelujah?
Not so much. Every time a new customer’s hooked into the system, someone else is bumped out, disconnected. Yesterday it was our turn. Again. No phone, no Internet. No Customer Service you could count on either. Modern times, modern angst – French style. No wonder they so frequently take to the streets here.
Which is what I did: with research to do, online lessons to teach and promises to keep, the wretched and the weak (aka me) gathered up heart and France Telecom file, hiked over to the Post Office and called 3900 (Customer Service) from the PO phone. The odds are there to beat…
An accent from northern Africa answers. At least we both speak French and he seems to have a sense of humor. He runs through the list of standard questions, the last of which: “Are you calling from your landline?” I hear the edge in my voice as I tell him again that the reason I’m calling is because our phone is OUT, as in “it does not work,” so no, I am not calling from our home phone because it does not work. I am calling from the village Post Office phone. “Are you near your computer and router box?” he asks. No, I am not, because I am not at home, I am at the Post Office, I politely reply.
He asks for my cell phone number and tells me he’ll call me at home, on my cell, in five minutes. Twenty minutes go by before my cell rings. Pretty good, almost record time in fact and I appreciate it. He asks me to turn off the router box, wait three minutes then turn it back on. This, he says, will re-boot the system and all will be fine. I tell him that I’ve already done that, twice, before calling Customer Service. He decides to test the line. Announces that it’s not functioning normally. I don’t say that it's a good thing he’s on the other side of the Mediterranean.
Next, he proposes that we uninstall and re-install the router box. He is trained to assume the customer is in the wrong. He is trained to avoid confirming that the problem lies with FT’s phone line or Internet service. I do not share his illusion. Still, perhaps a reinstallation will fix the problem, so I follow his rather odd and lengthy instructions. Over an hour later, nothing has been repaired and now the router box is not working at all.
Mr. Customer Service calmly concludes that there “may” have been an “incident” and that, according to the report he’s reading on his computer screen, our phone service will be re-established in two weeks. Two weeks. No phone service, no Internet service for two weeks. This is unacceptable, I tell him with equal calm, explaining that I work online, that this is far from the first time our service has been interrupted and that I will be sending a very large bill to France Telecom. He gives me the appropriate department number and asks if there is anything else he can do for me, to which I reply: “What else can you do for me?” He can check back in the morning to see if the system is working (he doesn’t call). Bonne fin de journée, au revoir, madame. No wait, I need you… I don’t need you… I need you… I don’t need you…
I need music. Now. At least the electricity’s still working (not always the case). I put on The Essential Leonard Cohen. There is no Essential Guide to France Telecom. No one would know where to start. So I’m counting on Leonard. Nothing can kill you in his tower of song.
He’s wrong though about that “ain’t no cure for love” thing. There’s a cure for Francophile love: going toe to toe with France Telecom on a regular basis. Descartes be hanged; these are Post Modern times and logic is dead. Even the French are pulling their hair out. Especially the women. Ever notice older women in France? Thin hair. Thin. Their service provider is probably France Telecom.
I listen to Cohen through both CDs then head to bed. As I drift off, I’m hearing France Telecom chant, “give me absolute control over every single living soul.” I punch back with: “I’ve seen the future, it is murder.”
When I wake up, I glance at the router box. Nope, the Internet angels have forgotten to pray for us. So I get dressed and head for the Mairie, where I ask Monsieur le Maire to call someone important, use a little muscle to rectify this mess once and for all (it’s election time). I learn that ours wasn’t the only line disconnected yesterday. But ours is the only line still out. The secretary tells me she’ll call France Telecom, give them our info and have them call me on my cell. Hours later the Mairie is closed and no one’s called. Sublimating, I eat M&Ms by the fistful, including the blue ones. Living in France sometimes drives you to drastic measures.
I make a command decision, to do exactly what France Telecom tells you never to do without their assistance: un-install and re-install our router box. The Customer Service guy from yesterday probably did something wrong, left out a step. He’s the expert (ah-hem) but who knows, maybe he screwed up. I glance through the manual, toss it on the floor and go to work.
Fifteen minutes later, it’s V-day in the trenches. We're back on boogie street.
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