“Safari, so goody.”

In this look at User Experience, I'll be going over some Service Safaris I've done this past week. Service Safaris are, in essence, focused observations of stores, venues, or even public buildings.

Through these observations, one can gain insight into positive and negative aspects of the customer/patron/user experience from that of a customer/patron/user. By recording one's experience through "taking notes, photographs, and even furtive cell phone videos," one can take these detailed observations back to the library to spark conversations about "how [one's] library handles similar situations"  (Schmidt, 2012). The idea is that -- by critiquing the service of others, even retail or food service locations -- Service Safaris can lead to improvements in any institution that partake in providing a user experience. 

Is this a statue of children
being overtaken by a Tsunami?

Before embarking on my own Safari, I appropriated Aaron Schmidt's sample questions to create a worksheet that I filled out as I visited both Barnes and Noble Booksellers and Menchie's Frozen Yogurt at the the Promenade at Westlake in Thousand Oaks, CA. 

It is probably worth noting that the Promenade is a very, very upscale shopping center in a very, very upscale neighborhood. Upbeat music drips from hidden speakers, the lanterns are stained-glass, and terrifying sculptures litter the walkways between shops. Given the quality (read: cost) of most stores at the Promenade, I generally have no reason to go there aside from Cinépolis, a movie theater that feels like sitting in first class on an airline. Unfortunately, my home town is devoid of a Barnes and Noble, and both Ventura and Thousand Oaks are equidistant. I alternate, and it was Thousand Oaks' turn. 

Service Safari #1

Thus, B&N was my first stop, as I was headed there to pick up a few books I'd asked to be put on hold. Typically when I get to Barnes and Noble, what their website said was in stock cannot be found and I end up leaving frustrated. This time I was determined not to have that happen. 

With my worksheet in hand, I immediately went up to the front counter to grab my reserved books. I was greeted rather curtly by a cashier who grabbed my books, asked if I wanted anything else, and started ringing up my "purchase." I had to stop him and tell him I just wanted to look at them before deciding to actually purchase them, which seemed to put him off. He put them down on the counter and told me I couldn't leave the cashwrap (a nonsense term that employees use and I only knew about from my days of working at B&N many years ago). He also made clear that I was to keep the papers that had my name and date of reservation with the books. 

Annoyed, I stepped back and started to scan them. One was pretty much what I was looking for (and reasonable priced), while the other was skimpy, full of unnecessary photos, and far too expensive. By the time I was done a line had formed, which I was hesitant to get back into for fear of venturing too far from the cashwrap. Instead, I waited as others went past to be checked out. Just as I was getting annoyed, another employee finally came up to help David B. (the original cashier) and called me to a register. 

He, too, started ringing me up and I had to stop him and tell him I only wanted the one book, and that I wanted to leave it there while I browsed the rest of the store. Much like David B., this fellow was noticeably put off by my request and reluctance to purchase these books outright -- after all, I had reserved them, hadn't I? 

After agreeing to come back and purchase the one, I was finally free to explore the store. This particular B&N (like many) was humongous -- cathedral like in its stature -- and the air was thick with the intoxicating aroma of paper and ink. I breathed deep the bouquet and starting snapping pictures and taking notes.

After my usual pit stops at the Bargain (are there any Stephen King hardcovers to add to my collection?) and Games sections (why shouldn't I spend $50 on the Ravenloft board game?), I went upstairs and tried not to vomit as I looked down over the expanse of B&N's literary holdings. It struck me how the store was laid out similar to a casino, in that the entrance immediately opened into a main floor, or pit. Instead of poker tables and roulette wheels, this pit was flanked by a Music and Movies section and a Cafe. At the center of the pit, of course, was a giant Nook display. 

Wait... what?

Done with both notes and photos (I thought), I headed back to the cashwrap to purchase my book and move on. It was then that I realized that I had inadvertently skipped the entrance to the registers that I was meant to (perhaps this was why David B.'s initial reaction was so snarky). There's a corral that leads potential purchasers through a makeshift hallway lined with colorful journals and unintentionally blasé greeting cards. Oddly, the entrance to this corral was a good 25 feet into the store and no signs were present to alert customers entering and heading right to the cashwrap of their potential faux pas. 

As I waited in line in order to remind David B. who I was and what I wanted (it was my reserved book again, but it had been years since last we parted), I realized that the entire store was lacking in the signage department. Sure, each section has a heading, but if I was looking for Teen Paranormal Romance (why is there such a thing?) I would have to ask one of the grumpy OWDs (older white dudes -- the only sort of person this B&N hires) where to find it because it's all the way upstairs with a tiny sign above it and nothing indicating its location with the 40 miles between it and the front door. C'mon... even Sears has those nifty little signs at each corner of the store indicating what lies beyond. 

My final observation of this particular Safari came from my receipt (left). While the more observant of you may realize I ended up purchasing a cookbook on budget crock-potting, it is worth sharing in that it seems like the B&M (brick and mortar) B&N is putting on their best Amazon impression. While it's a nifty idea (and it certainly works for Amazon), I felt as though this information does me little good after the point of purchase. What am I supposed to do now, head back into the store to go check out these other title I might like? Mmm... no. I'd had enough of David B. 

From here I had planned to go immediately home and perform my second Service Safari during my regularly scheduled Saturday grocery extravaganza. Fate, however, had something else in mind as my wife turned around and said, "ooh, frozen yogurt!" 

So we went to Menchie's Frozen Yogurt which, conveniently, happened to be right next to B&N. Not so conveniently, we had to pass another terrifying statue in order to get to the front door; this guy:

I'll swallow your soul!

After snapping this photo and momentarily pondering what the Promenade's management could possibly have been thinking, I began--

Service Safari # 2

Upon entering Menchie's I was immediately bombarded by a palette of bold, happiness inducing colors. As such, it was impossible to not be overcome by glee as I pressed onward toward the frozen joy dispensers in the back. One of the cashiers greeted us we passed by, though I was focused on acquiring as many of the tiny paper sample cups as possible and simply returned his warm welcome with the standard issue smile/nod. 


Unfortunately, the half dozen or so other patrons ahead of us were also excited about the tiny paper sample cups, so we all did the "sample dance" for a while in the narrow channel between the back of the register and the front of the yogurt machines. 


Undaunted, I acquired (after several years of searching) my "PB Triple Crown" (left), paid, and headed back to the table to shovel the peanut butter on peanut on peanut butter monstrosity into my slathering maw. I'm certain it was a rather unglorious thing to behold.

That done, I pulled out my handy worksheet and finally began taking notes. Aside from the congestion around the tiny paper sample cups, I was rather impressed with Menchie's. The colors were -- as I've established -- quite vivid and joy provoking, which seemed appropriate to the froyo milieu. 

Further, the walls and tables were all decked with smiling cartoon characters accompanied by speech balloons heavy with both Menchie's specific and general frozen yogurt trivia. I found this to be both entertaining and educational. 

The addition of a chalkboard on the wall -- where patrons could (and did) write inspirational quotes such as, "Amelia is awesome" -- also added to the feeling that Menchie's space was as much the patrons' as it was the employees'.  

Mix, Weigh, and -- Play!

What was the most impressive feature, however, was the signage (something I was acutely aware of after my observations at B&N). It was simple, direct, and effective. Enclosed as they were in uniform bubbles, walking into Menchie's felt quite similar to stepping into a cell phone or tablet-based app. 

While this may sound odd, it was oddly welcoming. I -- as I presume a considerable amount other do -- equate apps with games. Games are fun. If Menchie's is like an app, then Menchie's is fun too. 

All in all, Menchie's was a near flawless experience; there were friendly employees, many flavor options, bright colors, and excellent signage. The only detraction was the layout behind the register. Though, if there weren't six of us angling for samples, I assume this wouldn't have even been noticed. 

The Bottom Line

These Service Safaris were quite enlightening. Both stores had what I either needed or wanted, and both were clean and fairly well designed. What separated the two, however, was three major facets: customer service, signage, and layout. All three of these things are aspect which I'd like to examine in my own library in the future, but I expect I'd have to either wear a disguise or coerce a friend or loved one to secret shop it for me. 

That, I think, is for another exercise. 

However, before I go, I'd like to share with you a curious act on the part of Caruso Affiliated, the company who owns and operates the Promenade at Westlake. They, apparently, offer suggestion boxes where patrons can drop in ideas, comments, and/or compliments/complaints regarding their Promenade experience. 

Unfortunately, it seems that said patrons must have their own pen and paper (there is none offered that I saw) and they have to be able to find the suggestion boxes. For instance, here's the one tucked behind a corner next to B&N:

I seeeeeeee you.

Blink and you'll miss it. I can only assume that the honchos over at Caruso Affiliated are huge Where's Waldo? fans. 

References

Schmidt, A. (2012, March 5). Stepping out of the library: The user experience. Library Journal. Retrieved from http://lj.libraryjournal.com/2012/03/opinion/aaron-schmidt/stepping-out-of-the-library-the-user-experience/