Back to Blog Home

Picture this: Oh Patient One and I are at the offices of the apartment block management company to sign the lease on our new apartment. It all goes really well. The rep is very nice, explains everything to us, a copy of the signed contract will be sent to us in due course. All we have to do now is to go to the new apartment and meet another representative, who will check the apartment in our presence and give us the keys. Then, I have a thought.

“Are any of the keys security keys that we can’t get copied ourselves?” I ask Nice Rep. See, for our old apartment we got two sets of keys, and one of them was a security key. We had to purchase another one directly from the management company for Teenager #2.

“No problem, none of the keys are security keys,” she assures us with a smile.

She lied.

The main door to the apartment block does, in fact, require a security key. Of course, the representative handing us the two sets of keys can’t help us with an extra security key. Talk about confusing! He tells us we should contact his colleague back at the management company HQ.

So a few days later I call Nice Rep to see what should be done about the situation. There is another issue about the kitchen door (i.e., there isn’t one) that I need to clarify with her. I am nice, I am polite, I am friendly as I explain the situation to her. I mean, I don’t even mention the fact that she’d assured me I wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.

“Why are you calling me?” she growls down the phone, no longer Nice Rep but inexplicably Ms. Hyde Rep.

“Um, sorry. If you’re not the right person to call, can you tell me who I should speak with?” I ask, wondering what the heck I’ve done to upset her.

“Another colleague deals with keys,” she growls again. “I’ll give you a number to call about the kitchen door.”

So she does. I make a note of it. And while I’m waiting for her to transfer me to her colleague who deals with the keys, she hangs up on me.

I call back.

“Why are you calling me again?” she all but snarls down the phone at me.

“Um, I thought you were transferring me to your colleague about the key.”

“No. I gave you the number.”

“Oh, the same person who deals with doors also deals with keys?”?

“Yes!” she hangs up on me again.

I don’t believe her. Why should I?

A couple of days later I go in person to the management company HQ. I am ready to do battle. I am not leaving without a key. The receptionist is totally great. She makes a call and five minutes later (and 35 Euros later) I have a copy of the security key for Teenager #2.

I still don’t have a kitchen door, though . . .

Michelle

PS. We still don’t have a copy of the signed contract. More about which at a later date, along with more Dutch Red Tape