Catharsis: Scottish Edition

There are many things that have been wonderfulfabulousterrificamazing about moving to a foreign land for a year.  For starters, Edinburgh is simply one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever seen.  And, while I can’t say I’ve been to as many places as, say, the Jolie-Pitt kids, I have been fortunate to see some pretty spectacular places.  (See here, for proof!)  Moreover, how cool is it that we are doing this?  I have always wanted to live abroad for a while, experiencing life as an American expat, and now I am.  Furthermore, living in Scotland guarantees a few niceties, such as free healthcare and cheap prescription drugs, good whisky (so I hear) and beer and pear cider at the pubs (so I know), and seeing totallyawesomely stereotypical things every so often:

(like teenagers in kilts…

… or men playing the bagpipes in the middle of a field on a random Saturday).

BUT!  There have also been some of the most jarring cultural differences that we have smacked into that are as unexpected as the fact that “clotted cream” is not nearly as disgusting as it sounds.

Let’s recount, shall we?

First: opening a bank account at the Bank of Scotland has been one of the single-most infuriating experiences in the whole history of human existence.  I knew, knew, KNEW that we should not have listened to the fellow classmate of Peter’s who said that he simply walked into the University branch and set up his account with a passport and student ID.  But, when you are withdrawing cash from your U.S. bank account (eh hem, Chase) every few days, getting charged outrageous fees by a bank hell-bent on punishing its customers for its own stupidity that led to the mess we’re in today, then you’d have hope that you could open an account in your country of residence, too.  Right?!

Buuuuhhht, you’d be wrong.  Because, while we have tried to be sensitive to cultural differences like the fact that Americans tend to expect customer service to be immediate and other countries can sometimes take a bit longer, we never expected that it would take SIX WEEKS to have access to THOUSANDS of pounds that we happily handed over to the incompetent staff at the Bank of Scotland, thinking, perhaps foolishly, that the bank would keep it safely in its care for us when we needed to use it.  Because, I mean, isn’t that why we have bank accounts?

Apparently not.  So, we continued to pay the aforementioned outrageous fees that Chase charged (I loathe you, Chase Bank) while the Bank of Scotland (I loathe you, too, Bank of Scotland) sent us unnecessary amounts of mail, one envelope at a time, regarding policies and procedures and the need for further ID.  I called the bank’s alleged customer service line no less than 30 times, and whenever I attempted to speak with a bank teller IN PERSON, I received classic British customer service: impeccable manners combined with UTTER INCOMPETENCE.

I plan to write a letter of complaint, of course, but I am taking a while to work on this masterpiece.  My goal is to ensure that every person who reads the letter cries.  AND YES, THIS IS THE ONLY ACCEPTABLE RESPONSE.

Second!  Let me recount for you a conversation that I had the other day with a CHARMING young man who has the distinguished job of managing a local branch of a bookstore retail chain, a la Barnes and Noble.

Dude:  Ms. Kline?  I was phoning regarding your email about the bookseller position in my store.

Me:  Yes, thank you for calling.  As my email indicates, I had some questions regarding the email that I was sent in response to my application.  The email I received stated that there were presently no positions available for someone with my skills and experience.  However, I provided ample evidence of my retail and customer service experience, my advanced education, and my experience in this exact position at a comparable bookseller in the U.S.

D:  Yes, but your experience as a bookseller was ten years ago.

M:  Yes, it was.  But, as my application indicates, that was an entry-level, part-time position which I held while finishing my secondary education.  From that position, I went on to hold numerous customer service positions which clearly drew upon that initial experience and provide me with additional skills that I am certain could be useful for me were I to become a bookseller for your store.

D:  Well, it was not sufficient in this highly competitive market.

M (stunned):  Weren’t there three bookseller positions available?

D:  That’s correct.

M (still stunned):  And someone with ten years of customer service experience, a Master’s-level education, and impeccable references does not have the sufficient qualifications to work as a retail clerk at your bookstore?

D:  That’s also correct.

M:  For a MINIMUM WAGE position?

D:  (silence)

M (beyond stunned and now thoroughly flabbergasted):  So, um, do you keep my application on file or do I have to re-apply if another position is more, um, suitable?

D:  Well, your application has been rejected and deleted.  You’d have to apply again.  (Pause).  But the same measures will apply so…

M:  Um, ok.  So, goodbye, then.  (Hang up)(Crawl into fetal position next to Peter on the couch)(Vent)(Cry).

Seriously, Waterstone’s?  Seriously?  Needless to say: boycott is in effect.  Feel free to join.

Third!  As I’ve been typing this post, Peter and I decided to order some Chinese food to be delivered tonight because it is cold and wet outside, and we are both in a funk.  We Googled a place relatively nearby and submitted an online order for beef fried rice and sweet and sour chicken.  We received our confirmation email and waited for our flat to be buzzed.

And waited.

And waited.

Confused, I called and spoke with an employee who stated that the restaurant had not received our order.  I said that we had received a confirmation email.  She audibly shrugged.  So, we re-ordered and got 50 pence taken off the bill.  We were told that our order would arrive in twenty to thirty minutes.  And so, again, we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

An HOUR later, I called the restaurant to see about the “status” of my order.  I was assured that it would arrive within five minutes.  So we waited.

And waited.

Another fifteen minutes later, a man knocked on all of the doors on our level.  I unlocked and opened our door, made quick and apologetic eye contact with my neighbors (whom, p.s. I have never before seen), and retrieved my food.

“Cheuhrs teh yuh,” the man said, as he rushed back down the stairs.

Cheers indeed.

So, needless to say, we’re adjusting.  It’s funny– we really thought we would feel more “at home” with fellow English-speakers than we did when we traveled on the Continent.  Interestingly, the more settled we get in our temporary home here, the more we realize that we are “outsiders.”

(P.S. I miss France).