Some Havelaar adventures in banking...

I'm a Credit Union kind of guy and, thankfully, so were my parents.
Which is a short way of saying that almost all my “banking” experiences, even those involving other people's money, have been positive, even exemplary.
That is best illustrated by a brief anecdote:
My mom did the finances, and when she died and my dad started to make a hash of his financial life, he and I agreed I should take over. So we went to his Credit Union and arranged for him to do his banking online. Which effectively meant I did his banking online and got cash from the machine as needed, very convenient for both of us.
After this had been going on for some time, and knowing there was a Power of Attorney on file and that some of his investments needed to be converted into cash, I dropped in to see one of the customer service people. During the course of our conversation I got too comfortable, and mentioned this arrangement with my dad, which I instantly realized broke all sorts of financial institution rules. Fully appreciating the situation, all she said was, “I can't actually hear that.”
And that's the very definition of personalized customer service!

In fact, the only off-putting Credit Union experience I can recall happened in a Caisse Populaire, Quebec's version of the Credit Union movement. We had an account in the Caisse in Beauport, because we were spending the year in Quebec City. We had arranged that our Credit Union would transfer money every month to our account at the Caisse, and we picked up the week's allowance every Thursday. So far, no problem. And then, one Thursday I had a cheque from my very part-time employer in Quebec to cash. Probably a rebate for expenses; I no longer remember. The lady at the guichet noticed that it was made out to “Justus Havelaar”, and that my full name wasn't that. How was she to know I was the cheque's “Justus Havelaar” and not an imposter?
I do believe Sandy lost her temper, that time. In French, of course, which is a splendid thing to witness: “And just how many Justus Havelaars have accounts at this caisse, Madame? Never mind in the whole of Quebec?”
We must have eventually convinced someone and cashed the cheque, and it seems funny now. But at the time we had four kids and no money, and really needed that infusion.

In the very late 70's, with only two very young offspring, I did a teacher's exchange to a school in Islington in London. We'd discovered that there was a branch of the Bank of Montreal just off Threadneedle Street in the City, so we arranged that our Credit Union would make a monthly deposit in a Bank of Montreal account in Campbell River, and that they would forward that money to London. What we didn't know was that banks in England – at least at that time – were nothing like those we were used to. For one thing, they were hardly ever open, and I was always working at the times they were, which meant that Sandy had to shlep two infants to Bank Street Station on several tube lines every time we had bank business. For another, they were set up to make it as difficult as possible for one to access one's own money.
And, as if to trump the peculiarities of the bank service, when we arrived the post office was on strike and electronic transfers had not yet been made available to British banks.
It took us months to get a handle on this. Fortunately, we had credit cards that saw us through the worst. And we finally convinced the Bank of Montreal to forward our money to a Barclay's close to where I worked. As long as I didn't take out too much money in any week (yes, there were limits that did not even try to correspond to the amount of money in the account!)  that proved viable.
That part of the London experience was memorable for all the wrong reasons, and we were extremely grateful, the last time we spent time in London, for the ubiquitous bank machines.

Although we never had any problems with the Canadian branches of the Bank of Montreal, our relationship nonetheless ended in protest of the Bank of Montreal Mastercard Loyalty card issued to an anti-abortion group.

We got involved in a minor way with the Royal Bank when one of our offspring, having achieved some financial difficulties, needed me to cosign a loan. That would be easier if I had an account, so I acquired both a savings account and an investment account. To be completely clear: the local staff I dealt with were never anything but pleasant and professional – sympathetic, even, when we were unravelling the relationship – but that relationship nonetheless ended badly a few years ago when the Royal Bank not only outsourced its IT department to contractors in India, but had the gall to have its Canadian IT staff train their Indian replacements before they were made redundant. 
The bank representative who responded to my letter by phoning to encourage me to keep my very modest portfolio where it was, claimed that all banks were doing the same, to which I was able to respond, “Maybe, but my Credit Union doesn't!”

My most recent Bank encounter just happened a couple of weeks ago in Costa Rica, where banking customs are obviously very different. From my record, written at the time:
We walked into town so I could go to the bank because I thought I wanted to change some US dollars into the local currency. That went like this:
The guard at the door asked why we were there. So I mentioned “American dollars” and “colones”. He wanted to see my passport. Then the money. Then he let me in by myself, leaving Sandy outside, and indicated I should take a number and wait in the only open chair. So I sat in the line of chairs. Two wickets were open, although there were tellers at five. Two people finished, then another… I eventually figured out that the number being served was on a screen. When I discovered this it read 35 and after another half an hour it had arrived at 40. I was 46. As people left, the empty chairs were filled, but several people, obviously much more experienced, arrived from outside as their number came up.
So I finally opted to leave, and went to the machine instead, where the service, while undoubtedly more expensive, was almost instantaneous.