Whatever happened to customer service?

Horrible customer service during my flight back home from Seattle. Here's the scenario.

I arrived at the airport and went to the American ticket/check in, but was informed that as the first leg was on Alaska, I had to go to Alaska Airlines to check in for the flight. There was no one at their ticket counter--just a lot of Position Closed signs, so I used the automated system. Which spit out only the boarding pass for the first flight. So, I went back to American to get my boarding pass for the second flight. (Note that even though these two airlines are close alphabetically, they were on opposite ends of the long, long line of airline counters.) Then I went back to Alaska to try to check my bag. After waiting and waiting for someone, I noted that my boarding pass said "check in with the agent at gate."

I navigate through security and dash to the gate as it is getting late. I go to the counter, explain the situation, and ask for assistance. Wrong! The agent informs me that I needed to check my bag in at the ticket counter.

"But, " I say, " there was no one there. "

"There are 6000 people a day who come through here, I assure you someone was at the counter," replies the guy.

"I don't know about the other 5,999 people," I say, "but there was no one there for this one."

"Then you were in the wrong place."

"The ticket counter is where I was," I reply.

"Then you were at the wrong ticket counter."

Now, I'm getting pissed. "I assure you that I can spell....ALASKA." I replied. I know where I was."

"Well, you were obviously wrong." he says.

"Well, you obviously have no idea of the concept of good customer service," I reply. "Do you want to argue with me or help me out?"

"There's nothing I can do for you," he replies.

"How about a gate hold check?"

"Well, I suppose I can do that."

Sadly, no where in the coversation were the words: "How may I help you?" I simply wanted to check my bag, but his agenda seemed to be proving he was right.

This is a pet peeve with me. I am often stunned at the lack of quality customer service at the grocery store, at the service station, at the department store. People seem more inclined to argue or ignore than anything else. Sad commentary on interpersonal relationships in the new century.

Seattle Rekindles Passion

On a trip to Seattle. Finally moments away from "life" and near a computer to post. I am always amazed at the abundance of diversity in an urban setting as compared to my rural life when I first visit a city. Yet, over the course of a few days, I realize that there is not so much diversity as there is a concentration of differences. And in my place in the world, it feels as though there is more individuality because it is simpler to stand out in a smaller crowd. Sturm und drang is alive and thriving.
I went to Hack Night last night with Bryan--an evening akin to "take my parent to class day," as another mom and a brother were in town and joined the festivities. I spent some time this morning thinking about where our passions lead us. Back in the day when Bryan was a child with a passion for new technology, I stayed on top of the flow to provide encouragement as well as to "be the parent" and monitor activity. So, though I can still understand much to a relative degree, that other world is exploding with such ferocity that one without the passion sits on the shore and gets wet only up to the toes.
Which led me to thinking about how much I don't know, but would like to know. And how do I choose one avenue from another. Like feasting at a buffet--it all looks so tempting, but overstuffing means lethargy. So, now I am thinking about passion again. What sparks me? And I can truly say at this moment, not much. Although being away from the world for this brief visit has rekindled some flame. Somewhere over the past few years, I neglected my flame.
I think the shift I have made in work was a response to the need to feel and not merely do.
I will leave for home this weekend with a small fire burning in my belly.

One more thought

Driving to work today, I came up behind a car with bumper sticker.....Bullshit. A new one for me...it made me laugh.

Cabitat for Sanity

The kittens are adolescents and longing for freedom. So, Tim and I scouted the land and came up with some recycled fencing to craft a Cabitat for Sanity. Our sanity. We now have a large two-story enclosure off the front of camp for the teen queen kitties. They wrestle over the “way up high spot,” favored among the four perches we created. The culvert is a hit, as is the climbing tree. Access is through the window, so it’s been just a tad drafty inside the house.

Our morning routine has now changed. The first order of business is “open the window, Mom.” Empress Chiperoo, the 15 year old matriarch, sits just outside the enclosure and taunts the teens on her 10 minute morning walk outside the camp.

Coming up for air...

Spring appeared over the weekend—weeks late but welcome. We managed to keep the most of the road despite the two intense Nor’easters that blew up our way. It is sadly eroded by the river that ran through it. I’ve many hours of raking and shoveling in my future.

Been reflecting much lately about life and personal choices. I’ve a dear friend who has been diagnosed with ALS. He is the type of person who is always helping others, smiling, and creating laughter. The whole situation makes me angry, but if anyone can beat the odds, my friend will.

Last week, another friend lost her dad and brother in just three short days. And the week before, an associate’s seven-month old child died—sudden infant death.

So, I am glad I made the choice to cut back my work time in July and start building my home time. This year’s big fund-raiser was the most challenging of the past nine years. I’m ready to cede that work to others.

Peas, lettuce, and spinach are going in the garden this afternoon. The ground smelled so delicious when I passed the garden plot on my way to the Jeep this morning. Rich, brown, and ready to sprout. Uncovered the herbs and found new growth amid the thyme, chives, and sage. The lilies and Solomon’s Bells are poking their heads out for the new season. And the fat pussywillows stand in the jar by the window. Spring.

Ben Franklin's Not Home

Up way past bedtime in the town that rocked the nation....Philadelphia, PA. The first thing that comes to mind when I arrive in this town is The Hooters. A great Philly band that opened Live Aid in 1985. "And We Danced" is a not only a fine dance tune, it'll get you through rush hour traffic in New York.
Traveling for work this week. I am always reminded when I hit the east coast megalopolis just why I live in rural Maine. The energy reaches me, but the smell, congestion, and highway mania are draining.

Cool cats, cold weather

I’ve been listening to Midwest weather hype and pondering relativity. What is news in that region seems par for the course in the wilds of Maine. We find ways to sanely winter over.

My cats are weathering the lingering blast of arctic air by crawling beneath the covers at night and co-mingling into amorphous balls of fur during the day. I watch them negotiate the cabin, never placing a paw on the cold floor. Small leap from loft ladder to cabinet to the L-bench, to the other cabinet, across the stove and down in the litter box. They squabble over the space beneath the woodstove or on the adjacent ladder, but mostly over my lap. Seven will softly reach out and touch my face with her paw while her sister, Sadie, circles anxiously. Old Chip is content to wait until all motion ceases. Then I am trapped in position as each cat assumes its desired spot. Feet, legs, lap.

Chip, who has been an outside cat, worries at the door each morning until I grudgingly let her out. Two leaps out the door. Pause. Her head swivels back toward the door, where I watch for the perplexed look that I know will cross her face. I am not sure if she’s forgotten why she went out, how she got there, or if she’s merely stunned by the cold. Our eyes meet and seconds later she is back inside. Some mornings we repeat this routine several times, in rapid succession. Those days I firmly count as senior moments.

The kittens are fascinated by these efforts. Hunched on steps of the ladder, they watch closely. Sometimes they leap to their seats as I step toward the door, so as not to miss a bit of the action. When they are convinced that Chip has completed her morning routine, they bound down the ladder and sniff the outside on her fur.

My cats are my constant comfort. Sitting in the window, watching as I leave home each morning. Sitting in the window, watching as I return home each night.

News of The Day.

The groundhog came out and didn't see his shadow. Mud is only six weeks away.

Waking moments.

Living in a small space (200 sq. ft.) forces me to attempt to be organized—no small feat for a champion information junkie and stacker of important things that can’t be thrown away. Add to the mix, a partner who dribbles nails and assorted metal things around and some days it looks as though a williwaw breezed in for a visit.

Mostly we do well living in closeness, however, there are mornings—like this one—when the cooperative dance falters. I think, mostly, that I spend many hours of my life in simple rhythms. I wake at the same time, make my coffee, feed the cats, bathe, and dress. Each step measured to get me to work at the same time each workday. This morning, because Tim had the day off and was taking up “my” space, my rhythm was jazzed. I was uncomfortable and that feeling leeched out into the cabin. Even the cats, it seemed, felt my discomfort; loudly mewing in long, lingering sentences. Or perhaps, they, too, were merely voicing their concern about the shift in the morning routine.

While I usually find the rhythms soothing—a morning meditation, I pondered as I drove out Happytown Road this morning. When does the rhythm becomes a rut? At what moment is that shift made? Or is it the intent—conscious or unconscious—that matters?

Then I found myself turning into the drive at work. And another morning rhythm was shot. I hadn’t checked for the husky, looked for the eagle, or noticed whether the sheep were out.

Maybe my rhythms serve to set up those moments of dissonance that move me out of comfort. Offering me a moment to ponder why the rhythm and does it still serve me well.

Pick me, pick me....

It was a long, long night of bright, bright moon…and two crazed kittens. I count the days left in the work week and balance that number against the number of actual hours of sleep over the past few nights. With thoughts leaking out my ears, I have spent the day securing sponsorships for an upcoming event and finalizing our presentation for a request for continued funding from a coalition this evening. I listen to news reports of potential inquiries into billions of dollars that have “disappeared” into Iraq. I am reminded that funding for our programming has been eliminated. Oliver Twist asked, “please, sir, may I have some more?” I ask: please may we have your crumbs. I figure crumbs from billions must be substantial.

Postscript to prior post...

Since I've moved up the day, I need to find a better solution for off the grid connectivity in rural Maine than sitting in my car on Main Street. Though whyI would expect a better solution is a tad silly since we're still cell phone challenged. Still, we're better off than Lisa and Oliver.

You Don't Need To Be A Weatherman To Know Which Way The Wind Blows

25 below today with the chilling winds. Winter has arrived in coastal Maine.

I have been thinking about my grandmother a good deal lately, and those two sentences brought her once more to the foreground of memory.

A calendar hung next to my grandmother’s chair at the kitchen table. Each morning one of the first things she did was to step outside to check the weather and read the thermometer. She would note the information on the calendar, along with other important facts. Things like … the ice was out of the pond. Saw first robin of the year. Or Dad died this day XX years ago. It was a colorfully consistent measure of the day and the passing of seasons and years.

My calendar travels with me. Each evening one of the last things that I do is to check my schedule for the coming day. My calendar measures appointments and mileage. It is an unremarkable, yet consistent, measure of the passing of my days.

I made a decision this week to change my calendar to one more like gram's. Although I’ve been planning a change in my life for a couple years now, I have moved the change date significantly forward. On July 1, my calendar will hang on the wall next to my cabin window. I will measure my days in sunrises, sprouting seeds, and songbirds.

I see my grandmother smiling.

To Begin With...

Well, kiddo, I've set the blog up. The word, Blog, doesn't "do much for me." I still prefer The Loft, so I'll keep that in mind when I think of this space. Since I'm on lunch break, this first post will be short. Who caught GWB last evening? Does anyone still have him? If so, make sure he's on the first plane if 20,000 more troops are deployed. A troop plane.