Lost wallet becomes blessing in disguise
Posted: Friday, August 15, 2008 7:57 AM
I lost my wallet last Tuesday. As fun experiences go, it ranks up there with root canals and prostate exams, except the discomfort is mental instead of physical.
I wouldn’t do it again, but now that I finally have a credit card back in my possession after going three cash-free days, I also wouldn’t trade it. By losing my wallet I gained an encounter with some of the most caring people I’ve ever met anywhere.
I lost the wallet in a moment of distracted stupidity, which is probably how must wallets are lost. I took it out in a taxi Tuesday night, started thinking about something else, and left it there. It took about two minutes to realize my mistake, but by then it was too late.
I cancelled my credit cards, and my bank promised to ship me an emergency replacement for on card by Thursday. There was nothing else to do but write my column and go back to my room to kick myself.
Thursday came and went without the replacement card arriving. Today – Friday – there was still no card. But there was a phone call just after noon from Mastercard informing me that the card had not yet gotten to Beijing and they were working on getting the Bank of China to issue a replacement. After a half hour or so, they called again to tell me where to go to get the card.
My cash reserves were dwindling fast, but I grabbed a cab and headed to the bank, aiming to get there, as directed, at 4 p.m. At about 3:55, Mastercard called to tell me that there was an equipment breakdown and there would be no card, possibly until Monday.
Since I was already at the bank, I figured I’d stop in and see what the story was. It’s the main Beijing branch of the Bank of China, and when you walk in, it’s like entering a modern version of Grand Central Terminal – a huge expanse paved in gleaming marble and made up of a hexagon contained in an octagon with pyramids of glass forming a canopy some 60 feet overhead.
Two walls were lined with numbered tellers’ windows. To the right was a big triangular island of carrels for credit card issues. Employees scurried everywhere, the women dressed in
maroon suits, the men in black slacks, white shirts and dark ties.
One of our translators had written down my problem and the person I was supposed to see. A greeter apparently was expecting the dumb American who’d lost his wallet, and told me that I would have to wait for 10 or 20 minutes before someone would be available to talk to me. She was so exquisitely polite, I didn’t have the heart to inflict on her any of the bile that had been accumulating in my gorge. I kept telling myself it wasn’t her fault that I’d been sent on a fool’s errand.
After about 15 minutes, a 25-year-old manager who spoke excellent English approached me. Her name is Tan Meijuan, but she introduced herself as “Shirley,” the name her English teacher had given her.
“Shirley” told me that the bank’s machine that turns out replacement credit cards was broken, but a technician was working on it. She had hopes that it would be repaired before the bank closed at 6. I gave her my phone number and went for a walk, convinced I was going to be spending an un-spending weekend.
After another quarter hour, she called and said the machine was fixed and my card ready. I uttered a noise that could be interpreted as expressing glee and hurried back into the bank, where “Shirley” was waiting with my card. After filling out the usual forms, she told me all I had to do was activate it – by calling an 800 number in the United States – and then I could get some cash.
There was only one snag: my company-issued cell phone can’t call the United States. I could do that back at the workspace, where we have direct lines back home, but then I wouldn’t be able to get a cash advance at the bank. Shirley and three assistants listened to my lament, probably feared I was about to burst into tears, and dialed the 800 number on the bank’s phone. They didn’t have to do this, but they felt sorry for me, so sorry that one of the assistants showed up with a plush Olympic mascot and gave it to me.
I’m not a fan of mascots, and until that moment I thought the Beijing mascots were as lame as any other. But when Shirley gave it to me – the mascot’s name is Nini – I thought it was the loveliest stuffed critter I’d ever seen. It was the purest kind of gift, given to lift the spirits of a dispirited foreigner, an act of thoughtful kindness I’ll never forget.
She stayed by my side for the obligatory 10-minute “your-call-is-important-to-us” waltz, walked me to a teller, translated for me as I went through the exercise of getting a cash advance. I learned that she’s been working for the bank for three years and in two more years will get a one-week vacation. After 10 years, she’ll have two weeks. She starts work at 8:30 a.m. and leaves for home at 6:30 p.m. Saturdays and Sundays are off.
I’m not sure about you, but I don’t think I’d be as nice as she was at the end of a 14-hour 10-hour day. I thanked her profusely, and she said no thanks were necessary. She was just doing her job.
I’ll never forget her.
