The NON-Delivery of My Couch

Note: My French friend, Manue, has noted on Facebook that Marseille is NOT France, and this whole event would not have happened anywhere else in France.  So, don't blame the French.  Blame the Marseillais.

I said after the fact today that it is very rare that I have a "I hate living overseas" moment.  The non-delivery of the couch was one of those rare moments.  (On the contrary, I actually love living overseas...but sometimes the dramatic flair rises up.)  However, hours later, my heart rate has calmed back down to normal, perspective has returned, and I am able to realize that my couch not being delivered today is not catastrophic.  (Nor are the bugs that are eating my bookshelf.)  The couch will get delivered at some point, and life has already gone on.  But at that particular moment this afternoon, I wanted to beat my head against a brick wall, because that sure seems like it would have felt more pleasant than arguing with a delivery man in French.

Here's what happened.

When I bought the couch, they told me it would take 4-6 weeks before it could be delivered.  That date would fall right smack in the super busy time of my job, but what can you do?  So, when they called this week and said the couch was ready, I was very happy.  Delivery on this Saturday was perfect timing.  It was the Artist's birthday that day, and there were already plans for cake and killer bunnies in place.  We just shifted where the plans would be, and voila!  I had a waiting committee with me for the couch.

It was supposed to be delivered between 1 and 7pm.

At 6pm, the delivery man calls me and explains that he has circled the block three times and can't find a parking spot, so he'd like to come back another day.  I ask him why he can't park on the sidewalk, like all other delivery men do and he simply says no, he won't do that.  After five minutes of going round and round over the phone and realizing I am getting nowhere, I tell him that I'll come downstairs.

So me, the Bodybuilder, and CSI go downstairs while Pantene and the Artist stay upstairs.  There is a parking spot on the side of the road with a car illegally parked in it, because the sign above it says, "No Parking Tow Zone--Except Deliveries."  The delivery truck is parked in the street with its hazards on, just next to this illegally parked car.  And miracle of miracles in Marseille, no one is honking out of annoyance at the delivery truck.  They are just driving around him, (like normal people would do, but Marseille is not normal).

I asked the delivery man why he couldn't just stay parked right there while he carried the couch up the stairs.  He said that the police would give him a ticket because of the no parking sign.  I said I would stay right there and talk to the police, because it's that other car that deserves the ticket, not the delivery man.  He responded, "I'll stay parked here if YOU pay the ticket the police give."

I point to the sidewalk at the corner just behind him and say, "You can pull onto the sidewalk just right there.  There's no restaurant with tables on the sidewalk.  There's no store merchandise out there.  It's empty.  You can park right there."  He responds that in Marseille, one is only allowed to park on sidewalks between 8am and 1pm to make deliveries.  (First of all, IKEA either broke that rule and got away with it just fine, or this man is wrong, because I have photographic evidence to the contrary.)  I stare and him and ask, "Then why did your store make the appointment to deliver after those hours?"

"That's not my problem, Madame."  I said, "No, Monsieur, and it's not my problem that you can't find a place to park.  It's your problem because it's your job.  You're a delivery man.  You can drive around the block again and find another place to park.  You can park just behind the building.  You can park on that side street right there.  You can park on the sidewalk right there.  You could stay right here and have carried it up there and been done by now instead of just talking with me all this time."

Oh man.  By this point, all the nerves were escalating.  He told me that he'd already driven around the block three times, and he wasn't going to do it again.  He'd be happy to leave my couch on the sidewalk and let the Bodybuilder (he pointed) carry it up the stairs.  (I got downright mad at this point.)  They were treating me like I was completely irrational for offering several solutions to this problem instead of just accepting that they would have to deliver my couch on another day, even though I explained that I'd waited all day, and I, too, have a job...that I can't just take off again to sit around and wait for hours for another delivery.

He then calls his boss, tells her that I "don't speak French well," and hands me the phone.  Oh man, I was livid.  She screams at me at rapid-fire pace about who-knows-what, and I just finally hand the phone back, say "Fine," (in English) and walk away.  They were clearly tired, and with mine being the last delivery of the day, were NOT going to carry my three-piece sectional up five flights of stairs.

It was one of those moments, yall, when culture shock rears its ugly head.  That scenario would never have happened in America.  Never.  The delivery truck would have been able to find a parking spot.  The delivery men would not have gotten in argument with me.  It would have been me who called their boss, who would most certainly not have yelled at me.  In America, my couch would be sitting in my living room right now.  But that instead, the French's mentality of the store is always right and the customer can just carry themself over to another store if they're not happy happened instead.  And I would carry myself over to another store if I had not already paid for that couch in full.

Thus, still no couch.  I have no idea when it will be delivered...and part of that is because I don't know when I have another day free to wait for a delivery until the end of the month.  But, I'm not fuming about it anymore, because really...it's not that big a deal.  The couch will come.  At least, I hope it will come.  I'd like to say that they can't refuse to ever deliver my couch, but it's Marseille.  The city where banks refuse to give or take money, and stores refuse to sell their merchandise, and delivery men refuse to make deliveries.

I'd also like to thank my friends: the Artist, the Bodybuilder, CSI, and Pantene.  Their presence made the whole thing so much more emotionally manageable.  Afterwards, we just kept playing our game, then rode the bus along the beach to the Tex-Mex restaurant where we had fajitas to celebrate Cinco de Mayo the Artist's birthday.  So much fun truly help to lift the bad mood that would have lingered after the non-delivery.  My friends are champs.