October 2007 Archives

Some of you may have already picked up on this, but for those that haven't: I've updated my portfolio to reflect some of the work I've done in the past 10 months or so. I'm really thankful for the opportunities I've had to work on some really neat projects, mostly handling front-end CSS/XHTML mockups, but also doing some branding work and graphic design. So if you haven't already, check it out!

I can't think of a vignette to lead in to my wrap up for Day 2, so I'll just dive right into it.

This is going to sound small-town-boy-in-the-big-city of me, but one of the best parts of attending An Event Apart San Francisco was the commute. Each morning started with a rise on an escalator from the quiet roaring trains and muted conversations of the Montgomery BART station into the urban bustle and dizzying, glittering towers of the Financial District. Joining tailored businessmen and iPodded art students at the crosswalk facing the Palace, I'd cross Market Street and enter the hotel from the New Montgomery Street entrance, where I would be greeted by the majesty of the Garden Court before making a left to the Grand Ballroom and a tasty breakfast.

Note: Miranda July's site made the rounds in web design circles a few months back, and this was my initial response to it, cross-posted from a joint blog I run with my friend Gregory.

No one belongs here more than you is the promotional site for Miranda July's book of short stories by the same title. Typing a description of how the site works feels like it would suck it dry of some of its magic (go see it for yourself, then come back here!), but here I go: rather than the expected structure of a website -- a navigational homepage, some pages about the book and where to buy it, perhaps an "About the Author" page -- it consists of a photographed sequence of the author's scrawlings with a marker.

Now whether the author chose to go this route because she doesn't know how to code HTML, or to be brashly different (I suspect a combination of both), what results is code that doesn't validate, navigation that doesn't give you context of where you are on the site (and doesn't even have a way to go back to the home page), content that is not accessible (all the text is in images without associated alt tags, for starters), copy that isn't search-optimized (search engine spiders can't even crawl it, anyways), and a load time that laughs in the face of the "8-second rule." Even the way the navigation works brings us back to David Siegel's seminal, but now oft-villainized book, Creating Killer Websites, what with its concept of entry "tunnels" to draw visitors in, rather than being upfront with your site structure as Jakob Nielsen and dozens of other usability experts would advocate. The site breaks almost every tried-and-true guideline of over a decade of web design, mantras that I work by and passionately advocate.

Yet, I love this site.

In fact, I went through every page of the site in one sitting on my first visit.

Why do I love this site? Because it works.

When a friend updated her Facebook status to "Allez les Bleus!" last night, I clicked over to her profile to see what exactly the French national soccer team had done this time. I was surprised, instead, by a change to her profile picture, which showed France's national rugby team staring down a ritual haka war dance from the famed — and feared — New Zealand All-Blacks. Intrigued, I hopped over to Youtube and found this astonishing video of the encounter.

An Event Apart San Francisco 2007 is almost over — right now, we're in a session break before Jeffrey Zeldman's closing presentation. It's been a fantastic and inspiring two-day event, and I hope to make a more thorough write-up soon, but I wanted to capture one transcendent moment from a few minutes ago.

During the break between Eric Meyer and Aaron Gustafson, I headed to the other side of the Palace to use the men's restroom that didn't have a queue. At the restroom sink, I waited as an elderly man with a cane and a newsboy cap washed his hands. He was hunched over with age, and moved slowly and deliberately, as if the task of turning on a faucet demanded his most intense concentration.

As he turned from the sink with shuffling steps, I noticed pins on the lapel of his navy blazer: a sergeant's rank insignia, crossed cavalry swords, and a silver "10."

"Did you serve?" I asked him softly.

He turned his head up and peered at me with eyes squinted almost shut. "Eh?"

It was then that I noticed the brown buffalo pin beside the crossed swords. My eyes widened as I repeated my question. "Did you serve?"

His expression didn't change, but he answered: "Yes. Yes I did."

He started to turn to the door, drying his hands with a paper towel. "A long time ago. Long before you."

As he shuffled toward the door, I called after him. "Thank you."

He stopped with the door open, turned his head, and acknowledged me with a nod.

"You're welcome."

I looked for him after leaving the restroom, and watched as he made his way slowly up the lobby stairs into the sunlight that fell through the hotel's immense glass entrance.

Getting back to my laptop in the conference room, I confirmed with Wikipedia what I suspected: the man was probably a member of the 10th Cavalry Regiment — an original Buffalo Soldier.

This is a story about customer service. Web 2.0 companies, take notes. Actually, companies everywhere, take notes.

The first time my coworker Melanie introduced me to Loncheria Morales (or Taco De Oro -- there are multiple signs on the truck), she indicated that it was a great taco truck because of all the bottle caps on the ground. Lots of caps indicate repeat customers and a truck that doesn't need to make a quick get-away in case of health code violations or even worse, bad food.

Although "Pedro Morales" is the name on the side, I've only ever seen two women working the truck's cramped kitchen, presumably a mother-daughter pair. On my most recent visit, I could tell the Morales' have been doing well because they'd set up a picnic table for their customers under the truck's blue canopy. And no wonder: without fail, the food they serve up is filling, fresh, and tasty. Although I savor their carnitas tacos and burritos, this time I opted for something presumably healthier and ordered four "tacos pollos" (yes, my Spanish is fantastic).

"With everything?" the younger woman asked, as she penciled my order in a worn, ruled notebook. She usually takes orders, while her mother works the grill.

"Yes, please," I answered as I handed her four bills. At a dollar a piece, the tacos are a steal.

Stepping away from the window, I moved under the shade of the truck's blue sun shades and surveyed the other customers. A landscaping crew occupied the picnic table with a sheriff's deputy. The officer kept a watchful eye on his orange-garbed work crew, who ate their lunch inside a white police van. Two other customers in line behind me ordered burritos and tacos, and also sought shelter in the shade.

Fifteen minutes later, the line at the order window was getting long, the two customers behind me had gotten their orders, and mine still hadn't come up.

Cutting in line, I asked "Are those chicken tacos coming?"

The girl at the window gave me a quizzical look.

"Pollo," I said. "Tacos pollos."

She carefully looked over the worn notebook, absently tucking a stray lock of bleached-blond hair behind her ear. Turning back a page, she ran her pencil down the page to the bottom. Her mother turned from the grill and looked over the girl's shoulder.

Then, together they looked up at me apologetically. "Sorry."

Somehow, they'd missed my order. The girl smiled sheepishly, said something to her mother, and turned to start working on my tacos. The older woman looked at me and gave me a warm smile, the sort of look you'd think would be reserved for her favorite grandchild. Even after turning back to the grill, she kept looking back to give me that apologetic smile.

My order was up soon after, but the girl signaled me to wait as she handed it to me through the window. Reaching below the counter, she counted out and handed me four crisp dollar bills, a full refund.

I shook my head and said no -- I mean, a fifteen minute wait is nothing, and that heart-breaking grandmotherly look was more than l I'd ever want as an apology. The girl insisted emphatically, though, and with people in line behind me getting visibly impatient, I accepted the money.

Contrast this with an experience at a major department store recently, trying to find and print out a gift registry. Salespeople in one department wouldn't help us (Why should they? No commission from us). An enthusiastic older gentleman who was a new hire and didn't quite know the store layout (the only helpful employee we encountered) eventually helped us find the computer to print out registries -- but it was out of paper. We were told to wait in line at a checkout, only to have the cashier tell us to wait for her to ring up the customers behind us before she'd take a few minutes to reload the printer, or even hand us a ream of paper to do it ourselves. We were walking out of the store in frustration when we happened on a working registry computer on a different floor and did in fact make our purchase. Nevertheless, we're not planning on going back to that particular store anytime soon.

As for Loncheria Morales, I've become a regular return customer, not to mention an enthusiastic advocate for their business. How? It wasn't just the money. Read that again: it wasn't just the money.

It was the sincerity and the promptness of their apology, and the fact that they took immediate action, moving my order to the front of their queue. Refunding me for the order was just a nice extra.

It's sad that a multi-million dollar corporation can be out-serviced by a humble taco truck.

The tacos, by the way, were delicious.