After the first fews days that Lucy and Phillipe were home from the hospital, utilities seem to have sorted themselves out. We've had only a couple more cuts of electricity and no loss of water, let alone—as we were having for a few days—simultaneous suspensions of both. When these interruptions occur, they just do. There are no question because there are no answers. You just wait and sooner (2 minutes) or later (2 days) service will return.
We have continued, though, to have problems with maintaining continuous Internet access. I'm very dependent on my laptop for my contact with the US; Yves uses his constantly for his professional studies about solar energy. Well, I'm sure everyone knows how disappointing it is to be blacked out.
I am not proud of the fact—but it's the truth—that when I can't get Internet service, I immediately think dark thoughts about the Third World and its inadequacies. Whatever he thinks, Yves calls the provider at once. And once, it actually proved to be a system-wide problem, solved a few hours later, and we were up and going again. Just like home, in fact.
Another time, Yves called the provider. The help desk could find nothing wrong, so we were left fulminating against the company—until Yves noticed that the cleaning lady had tugged the cord while cleaning, leaving it only partially plugged in. Another time, after we got indignant with the company, Yves discovered a bent wire at the back of the box that interrupted the connection. He straightened it: problem solved. (Whoops.)
Yesterday we learned a diagnostic of local and lasting usefulness. Once more on our screens appeared the tiresome message that we were not connected. Yves made yet another call. You know how the help people always ask you to unplug the router and plug it back into the jack? Yves complied. But once he unplugged it, he couldn't force it back because he had released not only the cord but pulled the plug on massive a swarm of ants—an army with spears and swords and frightening, ferocious expressions!—that burst into the living room.
The help desk agent told Yves, in French, of course, "I think we've found your problem, Sir."
Yves and Lucy lunged on the invaders and eventually beat them back, squirting the interior of the wiring channel with enough liquid Madar to satisfy a genocidal dictator. Now the computers work just fine. And we know to check for marauding ants before calling the company. Maybe the help desk will even think to add "nesting ants?" to their check list, up there with "plugged in?"
We have continued, though, to have problems with maintaining continuous Internet access. I'm very dependent on my laptop for my contact with the US; Yves uses his constantly for his professional studies about solar energy. Well, I'm sure everyone knows how disappointing it is to be blacked out.
I am not proud of the fact—but it's the truth—that when I can't get Internet service, I immediately think dark thoughts about the Third World and its inadequacies. Whatever he thinks, Yves calls the provider at once. And once, it actually proved to be a system-wide problem, solved a few hours later, and we were up and going again. Just like home, in fact.
Another time, Yves called the provider. The help desk could find nothing wrong, so we were left fulminating against the company—until Yves noticed that the cleaning lady had tugged the cord while cleaning, leaving it only partially plugged in. Another time, after we got indignant with the company, Yves discovered a bent wire at the back of the box that interrupted the connection. He straightened it: problem solved. (Whoops.)
Yesterday we learned a diagnostic of local and lasting usefulness. Once more on our screens appeared the tiresome message that we were not connected. Yves made yet another call. You know how the help people always ask you to unplug the router and plug it back into the jack? Yves complied. But once he unplugged it, he couldn't force it back because he had released not only the cord but pulled the plug on massive a swarm of ants—an army with spears and swords and frightening, ferocious expressions!—that burst into the living room.
The help desk agent told Yves, in French, of course, "I think we've found your problem, Sir."
Yves and Lucy lunged on the invaders and eventually beat them back, squirting the interior of the wiring channel with enough liquid Madar to satisfy a genocidal dictator. Now the computers work just fine. And we know to check for marauding ants before calling the company. Maybe the help desk will even think to add "nesting ants?" to their check list, up there with "plugged in?"
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