Canadian banks have been getting some unaccustomed accolades around the globe this year. In fact, some of the last remaining AAA-rated banks in the world (as judged by credit rating agency Moody’s) are Canadian, surpassing many Swiss banks. Through their conservatism, and other banks falling away like flies, Canada’s Big Five have also quickly moved up the rankings of the world’s largest. This collective success is certainly a positive development for Canada’s role in the business world, even if only in terms of prestige, but my true affection for our Houses of Loonies has grown from a particular personal experience. Perhaps it's fitting that my warm feelings originated in the romantic City of Lights...
The story started well enough: friendly chit-chat with a gregarious banker curious to hear all about Canada, my reasons for moving to Paris last year and intrigued by my good, yet non-Québecois, french pronunciation. Though, that’s after I finally got to see someone. You see, in France, one can’t just walk into any bank branch to open an account; one needs a prior appointment, generally made a few days in advance for good measure. In fact, one can literally never just walk into a branch, one must press a doorbell and wait to be allowed in after being scrutinised via security camera.
The problems started almost 2 weeks later. My patience, allowing for a few intervening statutory holidays, had turned into concern. I had still not received my bank card and PIN. To my surprise, I received a call from my banker friend himself. No pleasantries this time, however. His stern voice was warning me that I should wire funds or make a deposit to pay for my overdraft. My overdraft?!?
You can see where this story is going. But first, some background: Unlike in Canada, when one is mailed a bank card in France, the PIN -- mailed separately, but with a nice bank logo on the envelope (no doubt to advertise the sensitive nature of its contents) -- is all one needs to start making purchases or bank withdrawals. There is also no such concept as “calling to activate” a debit or credit card.
Here’s another fun tidbit: I had explicitly refused all overdraft protection when opening my account. So, I asked Monsieur Banker, "how is it possible that my balance is currently negative nearly 4000 Euros?" The explanation is quite simple. In France, unlike here, transactions are generally not verified centrally at the point of sale, nor even at an ABM! This is a golden secret to all you potential fraudsters out there: if you manage to get a hold of a bank card and PIN in France, you have until midnight, Cinderella-style, to have as much fun as you want. And fun, my impostor did have: a fancy restaurant meal, a 3500 Euro impulse purchase at Gucci, a nightclub tab and a night at a hotel.
Up to then, I did not fault the bank. It was just an education in the defects of France’s outdated financial system (and perhaps the postal system). But that changed soon after I rushed to the bank that morning. No appointment necessary this time; I was expected. To my astonishment, Monsieur Banker and his supervisor from "upstairs" acted incredulous. “But this has never happened before!” Give me a break, with this start of the art, lack-of-security system, I was the first? I was made to write a hand-written letter on the spot outlining my objection, en français, to the aforementioned charges to my account. Then, informed that to initiate any internal bank investigation process I’d need to return with an official record of a complaint submission, I headed out to hunt for my local "antenna" of police.
It was somewhat surreal waiting in line at the police station, in a foreign country, having never needed to deal with the police ever in my life before, for an issue in which, really, it was the bank that was stolen from, not me; I had never even touched this ill-fated card.
Fast forward 1 week: another phone call from the bank. My request to increase my ABM withdrawal limit was declined pending a deposit to settle my current negative balance. Of course, I never made any such request! This will be our next lesson in French banking: when calling a bank, the only security questions one is asked are one’s name, birth date, and city of birth. You know, the sort of thing most people (not me) post on Facebook. And that’s assuming one is calling the central bank customer service line. If one is direct-dialling one’s local branch and happens to fall upon the banker one usually deals with, then it could only be name and bank account number for basic inquiries. In my case, apparently the fraudster had a non-Parisian accent as well, enough to fool Monsieur Banker to think he was really talking to me. Scary. This is not just an old-fashioned system, this is a comedy of errors!
A slow moving comedy.
The following 5 weeks were quiet except for my weekly inquiries or their odd request for a copy of my recent Canadian bank statements. The branch manager at my Canadian bank volunteered to append a glowing reference letter stating how I had been a valued client for almost two decades, the whole package faxed overseas in under an hour.
The fraudulent charges were finally reversed, minus a few unexplained 10 Euro service charges. Oh, and did I mention that I had, by then, been paying regular service fees for two months (7.75 Euros per month for the most basic of chequing accounts), for an account that I had not been able to use yet -- no replacement card was allowed until the bank made a final decision on my account. If this sounds like the bank was treating me like a suspect in this whole affair, it’s because that is indeed the case. I don’t know what happened internally, but I know that the police never investigated the matter. All I do know is that one week after my account was refunded I received a very formal letter, sent by registered express mail, from my bank branch. No expense was spared to make sure I received this piece of paper (unlike my bank card or PIN) which informed me that they did not find it “suitable” to keep my account and that I should close it by the end of the month.
One has to laugh at the absurdity of it all.
The next time you walk into your local bank branch, even if greeted by a small queue, I hope you’ll pause to reflect on how civilized our banking system is. Perhaps even, like me, you’ll get the uncontrollable urge to smile. They are corporations and we may not have a direct vote in how they are run, but we are virtually all their clients. That’s more than we can say for successful Olympic athletes, which seem to instil odd feelings of pride in many of us, especially when they perform better their foreign counterparts. Perhaps our banks are just another reason why our country is great, at least compared to France and Switzerland.
