We don't have your coat.
I have always been deeply involved in educating salespeople, shop assistants, consultants, and call center employees who treated me like a banker with basic customer service principles.
I probably got it from my mother, who, both in the Polish People's Republic and after 1989, would not allow anyone to blow her whistle in any institution or shop, nor would she allow anyone to leave empty-handed.
I used to start fights for these reasons, but recently, perhaps with age, I have come to the conclusion that calm persuasion is a more effective tool.
A few days ago I was returning home on an intercity train from Gdynia to Krakow. As the train approached my final station, I folded my laptop and headed for the door.
The train stopped on the platform, I pressed the button to open the doors, but they didn't budge. After a few more unsuccessful presses, I started to get nervous, because the intercity stop in Piaseczno lasts only a minute. Together with two other passengers getting off, after about twenty, maybe thirty seconds, we came to the conclusion that the doors were not working and started running towards the next door - me to the right, and my fellow passengers to the left.
At the next door stood a young lady conductor, who watched my sprint with pity. Unfortunately, the moment I reached the still open door, it began to close. So I shouted to the lady conductor, panting: "Stop it." In response, I heard a slow "There's nothing we can do about it now." The doors closed and the train moved. The next stop was to be Warka.
I growled at the conductor, "How is it possible that the doors in the intercity train don't work?" "There was a note on the door that you didn't read," was the answer, and I replied, "Dear Madam, nobody reads notes on doors in the train, the doors in the train are supposed to work!" And she replied, "If you don't read them, you have a problem." I realized that there was no point in continuing to fight and I demanded to speak to the train manager.
The manager turned out to be an older gentleman, just before retirement, and he responded to my complaint with a grievance worthy of the role of the manager of the cloakroom at Misiu: "What's your problem, there was a notice on the door saying it was out of order, and you didn't read it."
I knew it wouldn't be easy, but Warka was about twenty minutes away, so I had time to persuade.
My goal was to force the manager to admit guilt, apologize and issue a ticket for the return trip to Piaseczno.
At first it was difficult, but as I pressed the guy and brought up more and more arguments, the manager began to behave sensibly. He admitted that four doors on the train were not working and that the train should not have been allowed to run at all. He issued me with a certificate of reporting a door failure, apologized for the situation and the behavior of his inexperienced colleague, walked me to the door and wished me a safe trip home.
At the station in Warka I spent an hour waiting for a passenger car that would take me home.
Bareja, if he were alive, would certainly have good material for a film from my circumstance.
