So when an SNCF train is late 30 minutes or longer you get a voucher that you send in for some kind of a refund. This happened to me about a month ago and today I received a letter from SNCF. But not with a refund.
Instead it was a letter informing me that they had the pleasure to have received my letter (it was a form I filled out in block letters) but treating such a request was not within their competences. The office I actually wanted to contact is "Horaire Garanti" as stated on in the fine print when I bought my ticket or on their website. Consequently they have forwarded my request to the proper office.
Then she begged to believe her that I had the assurance of her highest consideration.
It is by far the most polite letter I have ever received telling me I've made a boo boo. Scratch that, this is by far the most polite letter I have ever received.
Except I didn't make a mistake. Actually I couldn't have because it was SCNF that gave me the form along with the self addressed envelope when I got off the train. That's right a self addressed envelope. Didn't even need a stamp. All I had to do was drop it in the mailbox.
So SCNF made the mistake. What's that you say? Everyone makes mistakes. Yes but the same thing happened to me last year. Got a self addressed envelope from SNCF, mailed it in, got a letter back from SNCF saying I had the wrong address.
So really what this poor woman is saying is "Please stop sending us these requests we don't handle them but I'm going to say it in the most polite way possible because I know it's not your fault, it's our fault."
Not sure what to do next time. Do I disregard the pre-paid self addressed envelope if it does not match the address found in the fine print of my ticket/customer policy stated online and mail it into the right address saving this woman from yet another mail she had to forward and a letter informing me politely of her actions?
Better yet, maybe I should just write the following letter to her:
Dear Madam,
I had the pleasure of receiving your letter. However the party you would like to address is actually your own employer SNCF as it was SCNF that sent my request to your office. I would forward your letter to them but I would need the right address which may prove difficult since it seems as though even SNCF has difficulty getting their own address correct.
I beg you to believe me that you have the assurance of my highest consideration.
Kelly
Monday, August 29, 2011
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Saturday, August 6, 2011
jogging
So after a long weekend at the beach with the bf, I got home from work and immediately started to do the million of things one has to do after a long weekend involving sand and gluttony (laundry and jogging).
In between getting dressed for jogging and putting clothes in the wash I was also straightening up the apartment and taking things out of the fridge in preparation for dinner when the doorbell rings. Knowing it's the bf (we're both too lazy to fish out our keys) I grab a pair of his pants to ask him if he wants to wash it. As I open the door I have a pair of maybe dirty pants in my hand.
In his hands are roses, red.
"Why do you have that?" I said, pantless.
He pulls out a little box, wrapped.
The rest is blurry except for 3 things:
1. The thought "Am I really getting proposed to in my underwear? (in a non-sexy way)"
2. The 5 minutes it took to unwrap the box to see if it was in fact a proposal (in a "am I getting proposed to" scenario this feels a lot longer)
3. A proposal, in French
Along with 3 realizations:
1. Yes, you are getting proposed to your underwear!
2. Despite this when someone proposes to you, it's an actual question and you should answer it, outloud.
3. However saying "I have to think about it" in order to be funny or lighten the mood isn't and doesn't.
Afterwards the bf, now fiancé, puts his arms around a very shocked me and begins our first conversation as an engaged couple:
Him: So... do you want to go jogging?
Me: Um... maybe we should go celebrate? I'll go put on some pants.
In between getting dressed for jogging and putting clothes in the wash I was also straightening up the apartment and taking things out of the fridge in preparation for dinner when the doorbell rings. Knowing it's the bf (we're both too lazy to fish out our keys) I grab a pair of his pants to ask him if he wants to wash it. As I open the door I have a pair of maybe dirty pants in my hand.
In his hands are roses, red.
"Why do you have that?" I said, pantless.
He pulls out a little box, wrapped.
The rest is blurry except for 3 things:
1. The thought "Am I really getting proposed to in my underwear? (in a non-sexy way)"
2. The 5 minutes it took to unwrap the box to see if it was in fact a proposal (in a "am I getting proposed to" scenario this feels a lot longer)
3. A proposal, in French
Along with 3 realizations:
1. Yes, you are getting proposed to your underwear!
2. Despite this when someone proposes to you, it's an actual question and you should answer it, outloud.
3. However saying "I have to think about it" in order to be funny or lighten the mood isn't and doesn't.
Afterwards the bf, now fiancé, puts his arms around a very shocked me and begins our first conversation as an engaged couple:
Him: So... do you want to go jogging?
Me: Um... maybe we should go celebrate? I'll go put on some pants.
Friday, July 22, 2011
sucks on a plane
So I went back to the States for 3 weeks this past month (France does have its perks) which was great. Getting there however, was not.
Firstly, when you are of Asian decent and you cross boarders you instantly become a souvenir mule for your parents and all of their friends. Things found globally and are oddly shaped (new rule: not shaped like Tetris? Stays in Paris) filled up 90% of my suitcase requiring a supplemental bag just for my clothes.
But I managed to arrange things in such a way that, in theory, a 100 lbs girl can shelp through public transport to get to the airport. Then I stepped out of my apartment and onto the sidewalk and the standing part on the bottom of my suitcase brakes off.
Great, but on we go because there is no other option and at least I can still tilt and roll the thing. Unfortunately I still have to pick up it to go down the stairs in rush hour metro traffic. There are 3 tricks to this:
1. Exaggerate your movements [get attention]
2. Look extremely pathetic [get pity]
3. Go very very slowly and take a lot of breaks [be in someone’s way so that they have no choice but to help you]
So I finally managed to get to the RER and to the right platform downstairs and it’s suspiciously empty. Why? There’s a strike. The platform to the airport is upstairs.
So upstairs I go and when I get there everyone and their mother is there because the trains are running 1 out of 3. I stand and wait crammed up against god knows who with my broken suitcase (whom I’ve nicknamed “Tilty”) and push and shove my way on the train when it finally arrives. I even manage to get a seat.
We finally reach the terminal and the thought of being free of bags motivates me onward to the check in desk only for them to tell me that I have to pay 35 euros to check in the second bag. I don’t even argue, at this point 35 euros to be rid of them sounded like a steal.
Unforch my flight wasn’t direct so in Chicago I had to get my bags again, go through customs, border control, security, and all that lot. I sighed with relief when I reached the gate and saw my 1 hour 40 minute flight was on time. I was almost home free. Or so I thought.
I ended up sitting on the plane for 8 hours. 6 of them on the runway without friends or telephone because:
1. Technical problem and waiting for mechanic to come and fix it
2. Bumped back in the queue due to a “VIP” flight
3. Thunderstorms long and wide up and down the east coast suspending all eastbound flights
4. Storm passes through and heavy winds knock free baggage damaging some planes (not ours).
5. Waiting for runway to be cleared of debris
Scheduled arrival time in d.c.: 4pm
Actual arrival time in d.c.: midnight
The next morning I woke up and presented to my mom all the stuff I had lugged back with me from Paris sent to her by her friends. To which she said to me:
“All this stuff. Poor my friends!”
Firstly, when you are of Asian decent and you cross boarders you instantly become a souvenir mule for your parents and all of their friends. Things found globally and are oddly shaped (new rule: not shaped like Tetris? Stays in Paris) filled up 90% of my suitcase requiring a supplemental bag just for my clothes.
But I managed to arrange things in such a way that, in theory, a 100 lbs girl can shelp through public transport to get to the airport. Then I stepped out of my apartment and onto the sidewalk and the standing part on the bottom of my suitcase brakes off.
Great, but on we go because there is no other option and at least I can still tilt and roll the thing. Unfortunately I still have to pick up it to go down the stairs in rush hour metro traffic. There are 3 tricks to this:
1. Exaggerate your movements [get attention]
2. Look extremely pathetic [get pity]
3. Go very very slowly and take a lot of breaks [be in someone’s way so that they have no choice but to help you]
So I finally managed to get to the RER and to the right platform downstairs and it’s suspiciously empty. Why? There’s a strike. The platform to the airport is upstairs.
So upstairs I go and when I get there everyone and their mother is there because the trains are running 1 out of 3. I stand and wait crammed up against god knows who with my broken suitcase (whom I’ve nicknamed “Tilty”) and push and shove my way on the train when it finally arrives. I even manage to get a seat.
We finally reach the terminal and the thought of being free of bags motivates me onward to the check in desk only for them to tell me that I have to pay 35 euros to check in the second bag. I don’t even argue, at this point 35 euros to be rid of them sounded like a steal.
Unforch my flight wasn’t direct so in Chicago I had to get my bags again, go through customs, border control, security, and all that lot. I sighed with relief when I reached the gate and saw my 1 hour 40 minute flight was on time. I was almost home free. Or so I thought.
I ended up sitting on the plane for 8 hours. 6 of them on the runway without friends or telephone because:
1. Technical problem and waiting for mechanic to come and fix it
2. Bumped back in the queue due to a “VIP” flight
3. Thunderstorms long and wide up and down the east coast suspending all eastbound flights
4. Storm passes through and heavy winds knock free baggage damaging some planes (not ours).
5. Waiting for runway to be cleared of debris
Scheduled arrival time in d.c.: 4pm
Actual arrival time in d.c.: midnight
The next morning I woke up and presented to my mom all the stuff I had lugged back with me from Paris sent to her by her friends. To which she said to me:
“All this stuff. Poor my friends!”
Friday, June 10, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
Sunday, May 22, 2011
key to happiness
So I remember one Christmas, GAP had a campaign of smiling happy people wearing colorful scarfs.
Being the marketing sheep that I am, I became convinced that the key to happiness was the ownership of such a scarf. So I went to GAP and soon came to the realization that happiness did indeed have a price. And that price was something along the lines of 40 dollars.
Although not an exorbitant amount to pay for happiness, it was after all, just a theory and already the thought of paying that amount for a scarf made me unhappy. I decided against it. Maybe happiness would go on sale in the spring.
That Christmas I received the very same scarf from a friend. And it made me happy.
Being the marketing sheep that I am, I became convinced that the key to happiness was the ownership of such a scarf. So I went to GAP and soon came to the realization that happiness did indeed have a price. And that price was something along the lines of 40 dollars.
Although not an exorbitant amount to pay for happiness, it was after all, just a theory and already the thought of paying that amount for a scarf made me unhappy. I decided against it. Maybe happiness would go on sale in the spring.
That Christmas I received the very same scarf from a friend. And it made me happy.
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