I usually do not use this blog to write about anything negative, but today’s experience trying to get around town using cabs in Paris gives me no other choices. Of all the places I have traveled to (1,142,896 miles since I started tracking my trips on TripIt), Paris ranks dead last in terms of customer service, and taxi drivers are the worst offenders of all.
It all started when I tried to go from the InterContinental Paris Le Grand to Bouygues Telecom’s headquarters on 20 quai du Point du jour in nearby Boulogne Billancourt. First, the cab driver had no idea where the place was, no map, and no GPS, so I had to provide directions myself, even though I had never been there before. Anyway, we finally managed to find the location thanks to my trustworthy iPhone 4, and I was pleased to know that I was riding with Taxi Bleus, the only cab company in Paris that will gladly take credit cards. That was counting without the fact that my driver did not think much about them, and he made it clear that plastic was no valid form of payment in his coach. Oh well…
After my meeting, I was headed to La Défense, and went on looking for a cab. Since the ratio of taxicabs to private cars in Paris has to be at least 10 times less than what it is in London or New York, I decided to walk a few blocks down the Seine river in order to find one of these landmark taxi stations. They’re marked with a blue sign and feature a bulky kiosk with a large button, a microphone, and a wide loudspeaker. You would think that pressing the button would put you in touch with the cab dispatcher, but that would be far too easy. Instead, the kiosk is used by taxi drivers in ways that still escape me. In any case, you cannot use it to order a cab. And because Paris does not have many of them, I was left standing there for a good 30 minutes, until I decided that I might want to give a call to the Taxi Bleus company. So I picked up my iPhone, googled them up, and landed on a terrible web page advertising a French toll-free number that cannot be used with a foreign cellphone. Darn! Fortunately for me, a couple of journalists waiting for a cab as well eventually sympathized with my predicament and indicated that I might want to hop in a nearby tramway that would take me to La Défense in about 20 minutes. I followed their advice and arrived on time at my meeting, having paid 1.70 euros for the ride. Not bad… And the view of the Seine banks was awesome!
After an excellent meeting with GDF Suez, I was on my way back to the InterContinental Paris Le Grand in order to pick up my luggage before heading to the InterContinental Paris Avenue Marceau (more on this later). Knowing my way around, I headed toward the CNIT’s taxi station, and jumped into the first cab in line. Before I could sit down, the cab driver asked me where I was heading to. I answered, and he grudgingly agreed to take me there. I asked him what was wrong with my request, and he replied that it would have been better if I had decided to go to the airport instead. I told him that I was not ready to fly back home yet, to which he answered that because of the short distance and heavy trafic on a late Friday afternoon, this ride was “une course de merde” (a shitty ride). I thought of telling him that I was sorry, but got interrupted when he stopped the car, rolled down the window, and asked a guy heading toward the taxi station whether he wanted to get a ride to the airport. The guy said no, then off we went. But let me get this straight: should the guy have said yes, I would have been asked to step out of the cab so that my hired chauffeur could make a bit more money, and I would have been left trying to convince some of his peers that my plea for a ride back in town was worthy of consideration. Think about it for a minute… Having to beg cab drivers to consider taking my “shitty” business! What a disgrace…
Anyway, we’re now on our way to my hotel, and I have to pick up a call with a partner in London. For fifteen minutes, I have a phone conversation in English, which somehow managed to convince my driver that I must be some clueless American. As we get closer to my destination, he tries to explain to me in some badly broken English that we’re not too far from the hotel, that traffic is getting really bad, and that I might want to walk down the block to the place where he was supposed to drop me to. I answer in French that I don’t mind, which prompts him to wonder who the hell I must be, being able to speak two different languages. How weird is that? At this point, he really thinks that I must work for Ernst & Young or KPMG, which both have offices next to GDF Suez’s, and seem to be particularly bad customers for taxi drivers, never being interested in a ride to the airport (the ultimate win for a Parisian taxi driver). I tell him that I do not work for any of these companies, at which point he asks me whether I’m French or American. I answer that I am all three of them, which seems to puzzle him, and he makes it clear that it’s time for me to get down now. I decide that I’m too tired to beg for the completion of the ride to the intended destination, pay my fare with no tip, and walk toward the hotel following directions provided by my iPhone. What was supposed to be a “walk around the block” turned out to be a kilometer-long escapade, but quite frankly, I did not mind. Not having to deal with any more cab driver non-sense provided enough satisfaction.
I was now ready to pick up my luggage and head to the other InterContinental hotel where I was staying. At this point, some readers might wonder why I would stay in two different hotels while being in the same town for multiple days. The reason for it is pretty simple: I am trying to get highest status on three hotel chains: Starwood, Hyatt, and InterContinental. Having been on the road for 80 days in the first six months of the year, I’m already set with the first two. And for the third one, I am trying to take advantage of the fact that in most hotel chains (Starwood and Hyatt included), stays count double towards elite status as nights do, hence I made it a habit to switch hotel every night so that I get stays as fast as possible. Unfortunately, InterContinental does not have such a policy, therefore I could have stayed at the Grand Hotel for two nights, thereby saving myself a fair amount of aggravation. Sadly, I did not know about that fact until a few minutes ago when I checked the InterContinental Ambassador website while proof-reading this article.
Anyway, after waiting in line for about 20 minutes at the hotel, I finally managed to hitch a ride to my final destination for the day. This fifth attempt at fiding a decent cab diver in the City of Lights turned out to be the most… enlightening. At this point, I was determined not to get abused by any moron at the wheel. I would get a decent ride, pay a decent fare, and not let anyone blushit me. Well, you have to excuse my French for a minute here, for I must have been influenced by the constant swearing of my last chauffeur. In less than 15 minutes, the guy, who was listening to loud and obnoxious French rap music (not the MC Solaar kind obviously) must have used more insults toward his fellow drivers than I might have used myself against computers in trying to get some reluctant piece of software to bend over my will for the past 25 years. The guy was downright scary. Eventually, we stop on the side of the road, and he asks me if we arrived at the intended destination. I answer to the positive, but ask him to drive around some kind of embankment for another 50 yards, so that I could stay clear off the rain that had started pouring a while ago. He disagrees, telling me that we’re close enough, and making me understand that I should be glad to be arrived alive, in one piece. Capiche? I quickly forget about my prior resolutions, and hand over a 10 euro bill for a 8.90 euro fare while asking for a receipt. He reluctantly provides one, but fails to give me any change back. At that point, I had decided that such a poorly rendered service did not deserve any tip, so I asked for the missing 1.10 euros, to which the cab driver answered that I had some luggage, hence no change was due. I asked for some reference to any kind of legislation that would make such an outrageous practice tolerable, but this started yet another stream of insults, this time directed at me personally. I decided that it was time to get some sleep, and left him to his own misery, with my 10 euros in his pocket. Bastard!
This concluded what must have been one of my most miserable experiences I ever had as a customer. As much as I love Paris for its amazing architecture and urban planning, I hate the quality of its customer service. Granted, this is the place in the world that receives the most tourists during any given year, hence it does not have to try hard. But as far as business traveling is concerned, this must be one of the worst places in the world. Actually, let me take that back: it is the worst place in the industrialized world, hands down.
It’s sad though, for I really like the company of good taxi drivers.
So I’m heading back to Tokyo.
Adieu !
