The American Peso

May 26, 2009 by host

As I was waiting for my flight for Zurich to leave from Dulles Airport, I decided to be super-prepared-girl and exchange some dollars for Euros. I handed the nice man at the Travelex counter $500, he handed me back a couple of bills. I waited for more. I looked down at the bills, then up at him. I did this a couple of times but there was no more money coming. Where was the rest of the money?

I asked the nice man what was up. He explained to me that the US dollar was now exchanging for € .48. I couldn’t understand what he was saying. He had to explain it to me three times, yet my mind still refused to accept it. Honestly, I still don’t understand it.

I asked him what the fees for the exchange were, he said there were no fees. How?… Why?… Wherefore?… I kept asking him questions. He kept smiling and answering them despite the long line of Dulles people forming behind me. I finally had to force myself to leave the counter with the measly €242 he’d given me.

I’ve been watching the exchange rate closely over the past year. When the dollar hit its high in March against the euro, that only meant that it would eventually fall like a lead balloon, because you can’t keep the presses working overtime to print more money (every time you run out), to buy back your own treasury bills and still expect your currency to be worth something. Eventually the piper has to be paid; I just hate being the one to pay him.

This puts a new spin on things, as I will now be getting half the vacation I’d originally planned for. I’ll have to ration luxuries like shelter, par example, and food.

When I arrived in Athens, I booked a room through the travel agency at the airport. The nice agent offered me a room in the Plaka. ”I can’t afford that,” I said, “I’m American.” He smiled sympathetically and said, “I understand, miss.” He grudgingly gave me a room in Omonia instead, warning me to beware of pickpockets and other nefarious sorts. I told him I’d lived in Queens, NY for awhile and I took the €48 room in Omonia that turned out to be spotlessly clean with an internet connection and free breakfast.

I’ll be spending the next few days in Athens before heading down the Apollo coast to the Cape of Sounion.

As I was heading up the Hill of Muses today, a man wearing a straw fedora and pink broadcloth shirt, using an umbrella as his walking stick (it was a sunny 86°), stopped abruptly in front of me.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Right-o,” he said back.