Every December, me and a few friends go to watch a football match somewhere in Europe. The greatest of these trips was to Marseille, nearly twenty years ago.
After the match, the night was flagging. We were worried our planed Big Night Out was going to end in a damp squib. Then out of nowhere appeared Pierre, a 75-year-old former sailor, who now lived on a small boat in Marseille harbour. He was completely off his face, and insisted we spend the evening with him. We did just that, following him from bar to bar as he introduced us to the good and the great of the city as his new best friends. We didn’t buy a drink all night.
Fast forward to 2024, and we found ourselves once again in the south of France, for a trip to Lyon. Lots has changed in that time - not least our hairlines and waistlines - with the advent of mobile phones, superfast broadband, and a whole world of information to help plan our trip.
Whereas in 2006 we booked a hostel to stay in, this time we were straight on AirBnB, finding a charming little apartment. It really was perfect: right in the centre of the shops and bars; great transport links to the stadium; a spiral staircase for that authentic French feel.
And the hosts were great, too. Proactive, friendly, giving lots of ideas and tips for the trip. Really, it’s everything AirBnB should be, when it’s not drowning in cheap hotel rooms and trying to sell you luxury experiences.
We went to the football. Lyon won. We ate frogs legs. They were interesting. We met random people in the bar, and had a great night out. No drunken sailors were involved.
It was a faultless trip. And then I got this message:
Dammit. I knew when I’d put it in there I’d forget it. This is going to turn in to a long, drawn out, can you post it, ruin-my-rating experience, isn’t it?
And then:
My daughter lives in London. She’s coming home to Lyon for Christmas. Would you like me to get her to collect it, and bring it to you?
I was simultaneously amazed and embarrassed. It was such a kind offer, but really felt like I was putting them out to do it. For what is, let’s be honest, an average shirt.
But insist they did. They wouldn’t have it any other way.
We arranged a time and place for the handover, but as the day got closer, her daughter was having trouble with her phone. She’d need to stop at a shop on the way to fix it, meaning I wouldn’t be able to meet at the time she’d be there.
Honestly, if it’s easier to post it, just do that! I’ll send you the money
Not at all! Give me your office address, I’ll drop it off
A few hours later, when I got back from my meetings, there it was waiting for me (along with lots of gleeful comments from my colleagues on how a woman had turned up saying ‘I have John’s shirt, he left it at my apartment’)
I guess, in a sense, this shouldn’t feel like such an incredible customer experience. But it does, doesn’t it? Because it feels rare now, that deep, human decency, someone taking ownership, going above and beyond to help their customer solve a problem.
And going further than they need to, with no obvious benefit to them - this is all happening after I’ve given them their rating, and it’s unlikely this story on it’s own is going to make anyone reading jump on the plane to Lyon.
I couldn’t find a way to express my thanks enough, so I guess part of me writing this is to use it as an example of what’s possible when someone takes on their customer’s problem as their own - and the opportunity people and organisations have to make their customers feel great, every single day.
If nothing else, it shows that France may be the place where someone will always have your back, whether it’s a lost shirt, or a lost night out.