At the time of this story, we’re having an unusually heavy snowfall in the Netherlands. Other countries will probably laugh at the amount of snow, but here ‘the country is on its bum’, as we say.

Public transportation is down, trash no longer gets collected (narrow streets + big truck = disaster), people can’t go to work because the roads are white and the snow ploughs can’t keep up. The trash companies actually let their truck drivers drive snow ploughs or trucks that spread salt because they are used to heavy trucks.

My company rents out Social Housing. Because of the amount of snow, we are forced to work from home. Many can, and some technicians are on ’emergency repairs’ duty. If there’s an emergency, our technicians will brave the white outside, but it may take a bit longer than usual. And because we all care about our coworkers outside, we customer service people make sure it is indeed an emergency.

A Lot Of Callers: “I have an appointment for today; how late will the technician be here?”

Most Of Our Responses: “Unfortunately, they won’t make it. I see we tried to call you for rescheduling, but no one answered the phone.”

Insert reason why they didn’t pick up and understanding customer… great! Rescheduled!

The Occasional Client: “What?! But I waited for weeks for this appointment! This is unacceptable!”

In reality, it was days.

Me: “I understand your response, but there is a national weather alert.”

The Occasional Client: “I know, I can’t go anywhere!”

Me: “And our technicians are in the same boat.”

The Occasional Client: “Well… this is an emergency! Surely you have an emergency protocol!”

Me: “We do, but unfortunately, hanging up a shelf is not an emergency.”

The Occasional Client: “It is an emergency!”

Me: “So you say you need to leave the house and can no longer stay in your house because of this?”

The Occasional Client: “Leave the house?! Have you seen the weather?!”

Me: “So you can stay in the house?”

The Occasional Client: “I can’t go anywhere!”

Me: “So that means it’s not an emergency, right?”

This usually shuts them up. However, one call went differently:

Client: “My faucet is leaking.”

Me: “I am so sorry to hear that. I have a plumber available in two days, assuming the weather will be better.”

Client: “Yes… but my faucet is leaking.”

Older client, repeating himself… maybe hard of hearing? I repeat the offer. Same response. I repeat the offer in different words. Same response.

Me: “All right… can you put a bucket underneath it?”

Client: “Will that stop the leak?

Okay, red flags. I put the client on hold and call the planner.

Me: “Hey, I have [Address], and the man has a leaky faucet… but my belly—” *onderbuikgevoel* “—is nagging. Something is off. No matter what I try, he doesn’t answer my questions, only repeats… He is in his eighties, so…”

Planner: “You wouldn’t call if you weren’t worried. You’re in luck, I have a guy working two streets away. I’ll ask him to check it out. Might take a while, though.”

Me: “Thanks.”

I return to the client and thank him for waiting. No response. I shout (working from home all alone does have advantages), no response. I hear no movement… nothing. I return to the planner, letting him know there’s no sound whatsoever anymore.

The planner says he’ll take over from me, considering the wait line. Through chat, he lets me know that calling the client was of no use; no one picked up.

You probably all share my worry, so I won’t stall any longer: all was fine.

The technician went over, the older gentleman opened the door, and all was well. The older gentleman managed to grab a pan and put it under the leaky faucet… and promptly forgot about the phone. He was indeed hard of hearing, so when he was in another room, he did not hear the calls.

He did not seem confused or anything else worrisome, but our ‘outside housing manager’ (who walks around the area to check on houses, gardens, illegal dumping, and people we worry about) decided to visit the client when the snow was mostly gone. Again, nothing worrisome, but my coworker will check on him regularly just in case.

To the technician who braved the white world because of a leaky faucet… You are a hero!

Shortly after I moved to the Netherlands, I decided to practice my Dutch by joining a volunteer organization. In my neighbourhood, there was a library which had switched from being managed by the municipality to being a volunteer-supported structure, sort of a book crossing spot: anyone could pick or drop a book, no need to bring it back, and so on. We were there just to explain to patrons how it worked and to put books back on the shelves.

Even though my Dutch was still kind of broken, most of the patrons would praise my attempt at practicing and improving it. Until she came in. 

She comes in on a Saturday afternoon, when I am normally the only one manning the place. She goes to a book rack and starts shuffling among the books, looking for something. I approach her and, in Dutch, offer my help. She starts speaking fast and almost not opening her lips, resulting in me not getting a single word of what she is saying.

To my “sorry?” she repeats again the same string of muttered and unintelligible sounds, to which I say, this time in English:

Me: “I am sorry, but my Dutch is not so good. Can you say that in English?”

She goes full banshee mode, shouting in English:

Patron: “You should not be here if you don’t speak Dutch! You’re wasting my time!”

Unnoticed by me, [Senior Volunteer] had just entered the place, just in time to hear my conversation with her. He goes to her, holds her arm, and, while guiding her to the exit, he tells her, in Dutch, which I can understand:

Senior Volunteer: “You are totally right, but unfortunately [OP] is the only one who volunteers here on Saturday, so if he cannot be here because his Dutch is not up to your expectations, it means that this place is closed as of now until the next volunteer is available on Monday. Goodbye.”

And in saying so pushes her out of the glass door, locking it behind her.

While she is staring at us behind the glass, processing what just happened, [Senior Volunteer] looks at me and says:

Senior Volunteer: “You did nothing wrong, and complaining about your Dutch is very rich coming from someone who only speaks [Local Dialect]. I couldn’t understand either what she was muttering! We are volunteers here; we don’t have to put up with such people. You can have the rest of the afternoon free and keep this place closed.”

I am waiting for a parcel to be delivered at home. From the notification I received, the courier should be at my place between 3 PM and 5 PM, and for my own peace of mind, I am home since 2 PM.

The clock strikes three, and I get an email “your parcel has been delivered”, but I have seen no courier at my door. Thinking that maybe the courier has marked the delivery as completed while on the way, I wait. And I wait. And I wait. 

5 PM arrives, and I have seen no courier or my parcel. I check outside, just in case it has been dropped outside without ringing the doorbell, but there is nothing in sight. I even check in the bin of the recycled paper, as it once happened that a parcel was dropped there, and it just contains folded cardboard boxes to be disposed of.

I get inside and notify the shipping company that I haven’t received the parcel. 

Two days later, a courier from the company rings my doorbell and, as soon as I open the door, in a rather brusque tone and without letting me talk, tells me:

Courier: “You reported me for a missed delivery, but I have delivered your parcel!”

Me: “Really? Where?”

He smugly goes to my paper bin, opens it, and looks inside, seeing what I saw: just paper and cardboard to be disposed of. Without missing a beat, he goes on a rant:

Courier: “Listen, I deliver thousands of parcels every day, and I can’t remember every single one. But I delivered your parcel!”

Me: “If that’s true, where is my parcel?”

He goes into his van, screaming:

Courier: “I delivered your parcel!”

Shaking my head, I relay the entire story to the delivery company and the shop that sent the parcel, who both tell me they will investigate further.

After three days, I get a notification that my parcel has been left at the neighbor’s living three houses down the road. Apparently, giving me that information in person was too much.

We rent out houses and sent out letters for necessary maintenance. The maintenance is required by law and has to be done inside the house. So, the tenant is required by law to allow the maintenance to happen. It’s not something immensely big, but it’s required, and it’s planned in a couple of months. If the people can’t be home, they can change the date. Our letter explains the law and (in my opinion) is not threatening at all.

We received an email:

Client: “I read your letter. Just this once I will allow it, but if it’s a [n-word] or searcher of luck they can f*** right off.”

A searcher of luck is someone who moves to another country because they want to make more money/get rich, not because of war or despair. It’s also often used for refugees or other immigrants who legally stay in the Netherlands. To be short: it’s a racist insult.

While the ‘I will allow it’ already ticks me off, the racist insults force me to first grab something to drink and calm down.

My response:

Me: “Sir, our technicians are selected based on skill and certifications. According to our constitution, discrimination on the grounds of skin color is forbidden. If you refuse our technician on these grounds, our company will take steps against you. We do not tolerate this behaviour. Please treat our people as you want to be treated.”

His response:

Client: “I’d like to see you try. Good luck and kisses!”

By law, we are not allowed to kick him out on the grounds of these racist remarks. But don’t you worry. This was not his first… indiscretion. The file is getting bigger and bigger. Keep on digging that hole, client, keep on digging.

My significant other and I knew these other two couples for quite some time. One day, we decided, for a change, to dine outside instead of meeting at someone’s place.

We opt for a Mexican restaurant, place our orders, and enjoy the dinner and the conversation. Toward the end of my meal (something with beans), instead of their soft texture, I feel something hard under my teeth: I pull it out, and it’s a little pebble the size of a pea.

I call the waitress, who has been serving us, and inform her of what happened. She apologizes, asks me if I am okay, and goes to the kitchen to inform the cook.

She comes back a few minutes later, apologizing again and explaining that they recently changed supplier for their beans, and that was probably the cause of the mishap. As an apology, they will remake my dish.

Since it was the last spoonful, I told her not to worry and that I just wanted to be sure it didn’t happen again to someone less lucky than me. She then offered to at least comp our drinks.

I was about to answer with a polite “well, if you really insist” when one the women at the table with us started a long tirade on how I could have damaged my teeth with that little stone, that it was unacceptable for a restaurant to suffer those kind of incidents, and that we should get our entire dinner comped to make up for it.

We all, her significant other included, were embarrassed and looking at our plates while she went off at the poor waitress, who was explaining that they acknowledged the problem and they are already comping the drinks and asking if the other dishes had any other problem.

After what felt like an eternity, I stepped in, cut the whining short, and told the waitress I was happy with accepting the comped drinks. The woman tried to keep arguing while we were paying, and even when we left, saying it was dumb for me to let go so easily of the chance to get a free dinner.

I told her that if we are in such a bad need for a free dinner, then maybe we should not dine out next time.

She went quiet after that.