One of the D-Link powerline adapters I mentioned earlier has died.  Its power light no longer comes on.  So I experienced D-Link’s tech support firsthand, and let me tell you, they impressed me!  24-hour toll-free support (not that common these days).  I talked to half a dozen of their support personnel over the next couple of days and not one was in India.  I have nothing against Indians, but I must say that when I’m frustrated and trying to solve a problem and I’m on a quiet old crackly phone, throwing a strong accent in the mix exhausts me.  The D-Link people I spoke with could have been across town for all I could tell. 

The first person I got was friendly and knew exactly what she was doing; she stepped me through several basic troubleshooting steps.  I’d already done them all, but I can understand that she’d want to make sure.  She quickly exhausted her checklist and passed me on to the second tier of support.  This person was just as friendly, and put me through a couple more checks, some of which I hadn’t thought to try.  When he couldn’t get it working either he said he’d pass me on to Product Support, and that’s where the first (slightly) negative experience happened:  Product Support only works from 9 to 9 M-F, and it was 9:30pm on Friday.  I’d have to wait until Monday for them to call me back.

That didn’t bother me too much, but in hindsight I’m not sure why he couldn’t have helped me the whole way himself, because when I talked to Product Support yesterday (everybody just as friendly and helpful as tech support) all they did was confirm that they’d replace my units, then pass me on to Customer Service, who just told me to fax in my receipt and wait for them to contact me.  If the support guy could have told me that it would have saved a few days.

noir.jpgNow I’m waiting for them to contact me.  I feel like a hero in a spy novel.  “Don’t contact us, we’ll contact you.”  Walking along the streets downtown I’m looking around in carefully, expecting at any moment to see a tall man in a long dark overcoat leaning against a lamppost, his hat pulled down over his face.  His face is lit momentarily by the flare of a match as he lights a cigarette, and the “D-Link” logo is visible on his dark glasses.  I’m standing next to him waiting for the light to turn green and without looking at me he asks quietly “what’s your case number?”  “ALR-778-095” I almost whisper.  He drops his match and crosses the street.  Glancing at the match, still burning, I have just enough time to read “pick up your replacement units under the bridge at midnight” before the flame engulfs it and then goes out in a curl of smoke.  The man is nowhere to be seen.

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