Customer service

The BIG department store chain in Spain is called El Corte Ingles. It is fantastic. You can buy everything from ice cube trays to designer suits, and when you're done accessorizing yourself, in the basement there is a gourmet grocery store. The branch in central Barcelona is the size and shape of a cruise ship. They boast about their excellent customer service and easy-return policy, things that are nonexistent throughout most of Spain. So:

I bought Hannah a backpack there since she now rides a motor-scooter to school. The first time she used it, the zipper jammed, so I took it back and it was cheerfully exchanged by a pleasant young woman for another, identical bag. The first time she used that one, the straps ripped off. So, back I went.

The imperious, well-dressed man behind the counter (whom I had witnessed, on an earlier occasion, rudely snubbing an American woman when she asked him, in English, if he spoke English) asked me: "Did you put books in it?" "Of course," I countered, "it is a book-bag." "Too heavy," he replied, then called for assistance. Shortly, a brisk, officious older woman appeared and asked me the same question and gave me the same reaction, demonstrating to me that the straps allegedly had ripped because we had overloaded the bag. "Defective," I insisted. "I don't want it." There ensued an argument in Spanish, half of which I did not understand in detail but all of which amounted to, "We're not going to give you your money back." I just kept repeating, "Ridiculous. I don't want it. It's defective." Finally the woman threw up her hands, turned on her heel and stalked off. The officious clerk grabbed my credit card, swiped it with an unnecessarily elaborate flourish, and gave me the refund slip to sign, all without seeming to acknowledge my existence. I turned on my heel and stalked off, quietly triumphant. I had won my first argument in Spanish!