Travelling without toothpaste – learning from the Kings of Customer Service

Of all marketing concepts, customer service remains perhaps the easiest to grasp yet hardest to deliver. The business case is self-evident and well documented. Repeat purchase costs less than a conquest sale. Happy customers pay more, turn a blind eye to competitors, may even nourish the direction of a product or brand if given due voice. Good service experiences can become folklore. Bad ones do, and do so more quickly. Both are now catalysed by email and the web.

Us modern marketers understand this. We're all in the service business now, we say. We write mission statements, hold workshops, propose metrics, conduct surveys. Generally assert 'Just How Seriously This Company Takes You! Our Customer!' And yet ...

This is an everyday story of travel plans undone by circumstances beyond anyone's control, and the impoverished response of the service businesses involved. It is committed to paper partly as instant therapy, partly because deeper truths for marketers lie beneath the surface observations. And partly because the depressing familiarity of events makes as insistent a case for change as any more extraordinary episode. (The brands involved just happen to be the ones that stumbled into my path this time around.)

THE END OF A LONG DAY

I recently returned from a trip to Fallon's parent agency in Minneapolis. America is, of course, the self-appointed Home of Customer Service. (Except that they would prefer a term like Kings of Customer Service. They've got a funny thing about royalty; I guess they never had their own.)

'Have a nice day!'

'Good job!'

'You got it!'

'You're welcome!'

Exclamation marks trail you out of every Starbucks, every hotel lobby. Minnesota does the niceties as well as anywhere.

Visiting Brits are obliged to check in their cynicism on arrival. I'm getting better at it. In transit in Chicago, my old friend Sam Adams lures me to 'The Prairie Tap'. I ask a fellow drinker whether he is leaving (it's unclear).

'It's all yours, buddy. Been keeping it warm for you this last half an hour.'

Really? For me? How kind. If you say that sort of thing in London you can start a fight.

I'm soon enjoying the casual intimacy Americans enjoy with one another as they transact. I even join in:

'How you doing today, sir?'

'I'm good!'

I'm thinking: they, and only they, get the service gig. Every smoothie, burger, beer and breakfast on offer – and there are plenty – is hand tooled for me. Yes, me! Laurence! If they knew my name they'd be using it on pack, like those overfamiliar direct mail pieces you get from strangers. I'm reminded how few British companies are good at this stuff. John Lewis, yes. Tesco, perhaps. Innocent in its own way.

In truth I'm probably also enjoying the afterglow of an outbound upgrade from Aer Lingus. 'You're not wearing runners are you sir?' I had been asked at Dublin Airport. Now I knew my connection was tight but this was ridiculous. Turns out I simply needed to swap trainers for loafers and I'd be welcome to fly Premier. (I'm a New Age Businessman. I fly economy because I detest hierarchies and status. And because there's no client to cover this one. But I crave an upgrade as much as the next man.)

Service expectations suitably buoyed I embark on what is to become a 32-hour return trip to London. Our American Eagle so-small-it'salmost- private jet sits on the tarmac. And sits. Bad storms at Chicago, runways closed, planes stacking, more when we know it. But right now I'm feeling informed and, therefore, well serviced.

MILE HIGH HYSTERIA

We take off only half an hour or so behind schedule. I might still make my connection at Chicago. (I'm back in my trainers after all.) But half an hour into our flight we're told we've been asked to join one of several stacks, as O'Hare is still operating only one runway. Silence largely ensues onboard; we yield to events, as one must at 33,000 feet.

When we next hear from the pilot it is not to ask Mary to prepare for landing. He has requested permission to land not at O'Hare (from which my London flight leaves) but at Chicago Midway. Sounds sensible, albeit problematic from there on. He wants to do so because of the plane's 'fuel situation'. Now, I guess if you choose to fly you surrender control to others and are obliged to treat news like this with equanimity.

The pilot apologises for what he understands are 'anxious moments'. Well, actually, they weren't. Not until you mentioned it. Corporate America has made its first slip on the service-o-meter.

We land soon enough – fuel situations can expedite that kind of stuff – but closer to midnight than planned and most definitely at the wrong airport. But I've got no monopoly on that, I tell myself.

The pilot once more punctures my little bubble of calm. We're going to be here for a while. We're going to be here for a while because American surrendered its slots at Midway some years ago, so has no ground crew to either disembark us or sanction refuelling. There is only one person who can help and they're trying to get hold of him. (Cut to images of Cary Grant or similar sleeping next to beautiful wife in full uniform. Him, that is, not her. The big bedside phone rings. He's needed at Midway.)

Another hour passes and I have managed to restore some semblance of serenity. Our predicament is, on reflection, unremarkable: the Stateside equivalent of a forced BA landing at Luton, Willie Walsh calling Michael O'Leary to negotiate some fuel. But around me others are fractious. Mary gives out raisins like a mum who has raided the glove compartment to pacify the kids in the backseat. I'd have made a different gesture I have to say. Though isn't the raisin a cousin of the grape? If we pool our raisins and squeeze hard enough, might we create alcohol?

The pilot has news! We are going to refuel and fly to O'Hare. The flight will take five minutes. As we take off, I reflect that I have at least learnt one thing while I sat at Midway: that 'Million Air' is a brilliant name for a business that charters private jets. At O'Hare we will be met by agents at the gate. It is midnight but I am in America. I am in the safe hands of the Kings of Customer Service!

SAFE AT LAST?

There is no one at the gate. Indeed, there is virtually nobody in the airport. Well it is midnight, I guess. It's OK, I've seen the films, I know what we need. I raise a posse. The wheelie-bag posse finds someone with an American badge. In fairness, the airline has booked us all onto its first available flights tomorrow. They had just neglected to let us know. They aren't sure what'll happen to our bags, but they should be on those flights too.

I brace myself for the service I am about to receive. News of the hotel they have booked. The car waiting outside. How sorry they are. Er, actually, no. After some negotiation I am offered a distressed passenger discount at a choice of three (yes, three!) airport hotels. I choose the most expensive one (the Hyatt) as I remember from my marketing textbooks that price is often a symbol of quality. I am left to find the airport shuttle bus. It transpires that you need a shuttle bus (and ideally a Native American tracker) to get to the shuttle bus.

The bus pulls up just as I do. You see! They're the Kings all right. It drops me off at the Hyatt for my five hours of shut-eye.

The queue is longer than any I have ever seen in a hotel lobby. (Did they not hear the thunder? Not hear about the disruption to everyone's schedules? Not hear from American and others that legions of passengers were on the way, tired and in need of if not pampering then at least the basic courtesies of a timely check-in?)

When I get to the front of the queue, check-in boy is all smiles. Badly judged. I have been rehearsing my requests so that I don't wilt under pressure and have to go back to the end of the queue.

'Can I have an alarm call at 6.30, please?'

'No problem!'

'And can I have some toothpaste and a toothbrush please?' (Mine are on their way to the big carousel in the sky.)

'I'm sorry sir, we don't have any.'

I must look like I'm about to punch him.

'Just call '56' when you get in your room and we'll get some sent right up.' Eh? By this point I am too dazed to argue.

'You're in 2317. Take the lobby elevator to L2, turn left after Knuckles sports bar, follow the corridor round until you find the elevators. If you get lost, the directions are with your key card. Have a good stay, sir!'

Oh fuck off. How difficult can it be?

I am lost. I get out the directions. This is what they say:

Go to the 2nd Floor (L2).

Turn Right at the Garden Terrace Restaurant (Opposite the escalators).

Turn Left at Knuckles Sport Bar 'blue neon sign'.

Follow track lighting-lined corridor to Elevators.

(For the 20th floor, go behind the elevators.)

They score highly in terms of accuracy. But they drive my impressions of Hyatt down to a new low. I am just a wallet wandering their corridors, adjusting to their stupid floorplan.

Let's say there was no other way to design the hotel. You're asked to write the directions for your customers, many of whom – by definition – are jetlagged. Mightn't you say: 'We apologise for the short walk to your room'? Chuck in a: 'Chin up, there's a chocolate on your pillow when you get there'?

Perhaps I'm being unreasonable. It's late, I'm tired.

'PERFECT STAY'

Let's brush those teeth and get to bed. Button '56' on my phone is labelled 'Perfect Stay'. That looks encouraging, well done marketing! I ask for some toothpaste and a toothbrush.

'It'll be right up sir!'

It never arrives.

Against my better judgement I decide to have a glass of wine to chill a little and help myself to sleep. Chardonnay? Whatever. But where's the corkscrew? I rummage around the minibar to no effect. Correction. I rummage around 'The Refresh-ment Center' to no effect. (How many salaries, workshops and groups were sacrificed on the altar of that pointless branding exercise?)

I am now someone-who-needs-a-toothbrush-and-can't-get-one and someone-who-wants-a-glass-of-wine-but-can't-get-one.

Has the Department of Homeland Security seized all corkscrews from America's airport hotels? Shouldn't they have taken the wine too? Take it from me, that's dangerous liquid.

Music can be a balm at moments like this, so I overpower the remote control and select a Dave Matthews track. (He's a kind of diet Springsteen, exuding a general sense of disappointment with life and America specifically. It felt right.) After two minutes of 'Dodo', Dave is interrupted by a voice alerting me to the fact that I have one minute left of my 'free preview' but the opportunity to hear the rest of the album for only $9.99.

There really is no such thing as a free lunch in this country. For all the service platitudes you are a cash mountain waiting to be mined. No more, no less.

I set the alarm on my mobile phone since something tells me my wake-up call is going to go the way of my luggage, the toothpaste, the wine and Dave Matthews.

I don't sleep well that night. In the event, neither alarm is needed. Which is lucky for the Hyatt as no call came next morning.

In the bathroom there is Clarifying Shampoo and Renewing Body Lotion. Great adjectives, marketing guys! That'll make up for the complete dereliction of your duty as a hospitality brand. I consider sending the Clarifying Shampoo to American Airlines and the Renewing Body Lotion to Hyatt's Head Offices.

I cannot get out of the Hyatt fast enough. Happily, there is an 'Express Self-Service Checkout'. That's another good customer-facing adjective right there! Cool!

Though it does seem contrary for a hotel to foist even this basic responsibility on its customers and then dare to present it as a benefit. Why don't they just hand us bedlinen at reception? It'll keep the costs down so big, mindless tick there. Hey, we could even present it as a new concept in pared-down accommodation. We're the IKEA of the short-stay hotel category! Maybe our first customers could make their beds, literally?

I swipe my credit card to identify myself. It would appear that I have drunk the entire contents of the Refreshment Center. For a moment I am tempted to pay anyway just to get out. Either that or start clawing the walls, Truman Show-style. Happily my sense of natural justice asserts itself. I join the queue (yes) and ask the girl with face set to smile:

'Can you explain my bill please?'

I'm looking for: 'Oh yes, that doesn't look quite right'.

I'm hearing: 'You had one bottle of wine, two bottles of water, another unspecified beverage ...'

'Do I look like someone who's drunk the entire contents of my minibar?'

Actually, don't answer that. It's day two in the same clothes. I'm unslept, unshaven, unbrushed, unflossed.

Pray, madam, how has the Hyatt reached these conclusions? X-ray vision, oompah loompahs with clipboards while customers shower?

'The minibar works on a sensor system. As soon as anything is removed, the cost is charged to your room.'

It transpires that I have been charged tens of dollars for my (failed) corkscrew hunt. Why not wire the bed and bathroom up too? Market yourselves as the world's first on-demand hotel chain?

The phantom costs are waived, but there's no waiving the taste left in my mouth by this no-toothpaste-big-brother-is-watching-you everything-you-want-comes-at-a-price establishment.

'Have a good day, sir!'

Perfect Stay? I don't think so. The Hyatt wants feedback at [email protected]. Yeah, right.

A cheery driver almost raises my spirits. It's seven in the morning but he's full of beans:

'Good morning. Thank you for choosing Hyatt, we'll be at the airport in about 10 minutes. Enjoy the ride!'

Get that man off the bus and into the CEO's seat. Or have I just been suckered again?

TOWARDS HOME AT LAST

You can buy any foodstuff you can think of at O'Hare. Right now many people are doing just that. But you can't buy a change of clothes. And you can't buy toothpaste. I am surprised to learn that it is 'company policy' for American not to offer complimentary upgrades. (I had enquired very tentatively. A simple 'no' would have sufficed.)

The flight that follows passes relatively event-free, albeit in coach and somewhat mustily. A week or so after the latest terrorist scare I guess I'll take that. An hour before landing at Heathrow a drink is offered. Yes, I'll take that much overdue glass of wine, thank you very much.

'That'll be $5.'

Now I can indulge the shorthaul boys this as they've made the new low-fare contract clear and I've paid tens of pounds not hundreds to fly, and sometimes less. But sorry American, I ain't buying it. Literally.

LESSONS LEARNED

I've found lessons in this for me, and for marketing. For me: always pack a change of clothes in your hand luggage; don't presume that airport hotels will have toothpaste; travel with your iPod; fly Aer Lingus when you can. Oh, and to reboot my old cynical self. Have a nice day? Yeah, whatever.

For marketing, I hope, the implications are more profound. Obvious, in many ways, yet still largely unpractised by most organisations.

1 More than any other Promise You Make, You cannot Talk Customer Service and then not Walk it

Either cut the platitudes and lower expectations to a level that you can meet or – better – dedicate yourselves to delivering your promises. If you say there will be help at the gate it must be there. If you say toothpaste is coming it had better do so. Early-morning call? Same rules. It's counterproductive to claim 'We Care' if every ounce of evidence is to the contrary.

2 Don't Paint Customer Service onto Your Organisation

No one needs more brands like Refreshment Center or Perfect Stay. Instead, create a customer service culture. Reward good behaviour. Punish the bad. Keep standing in the customer's shoes. Don't delegate responsibility for this.

3 Exploit Crises as Service Opportunities

The Chinese word for crisis comprises two symbols – 'danger' and 'opportunity'. Pour champagne rather than giving out raisins. Be apologetic, clear and helpful.

4 Be Careful what You Say, and how You Say it

'Anxious moments' is not helpful language from a pilot; complex directions minus a streak of humility do not good communication make. Being told 'no upgrades' is company policy does not endear you to that company (the policy is one thing, taking pride in it quite another).

5 Don't get Greedy

Sensors on minibars may prevent 'shrinkage' in the short term; they guarantee shrinkage in the long term because they denigrate your customers. Unabashed 'on-pricing' is sleazy; either shout 'no-frills' or set prices higher and stress they're all-inclusive (leave a chocolate on the pillow).

6 Don't Outsource Customer Service to the Customer

It might look good in an ops meeting, but it will steadily reduce the value they/we place on what you do.

This article featured in Market Leader, Winter 2006.