Show Me the Money

When we crossed the border into Liechtenstein, we entered a monetary limbo zone.  The world’s fourth smallest country is snuggled between Austria and Switzerland. If you bought something at a shop and paid with euros, you’d get your change in Swiss francs.  Switzerland is the most expensive country to live in, and Liechtenstein is the richest nation in the world based on GDP. 

Due to the wealth of these nations, my Swiss cheese sandwich at Vaduz cost me the equivalent of ten dollars.  Since everything is so expensive, I debated if I should withdraw any money at all from the ATM during my brief stay.  I decided I wanted a few francs for souvenirs.  My goal was to collect foreign coins and give them to my little brother to inspire him to travel or take interest in other countries.  With the change I set aside so far, he could scrounge up enough to buy a Coke in Greece or do a load of laundry in Spain. 

After consuming my costly lunch, I approached the ATM.  Thirty-five francs seemed a reasonable sum to spend on unnecessary items in two days, so I punched in the numbers.  The machine told me the minimum withdrawal was 50 francs.  Spending lots of money seemed to be part of the cultural experience in the Alps, so I accepted the machine’s terms and watched it spit out a crisp 50 franc note. 

I resolved to break this note into more manageable constituents, so I walked into a souvenir shop.  I browsed the magnets and found one with both the geographical shapes of Switzerland and Liechtenstein.  I ended up paying a small fortune for a refrigerator decoration, but I convinced myself I found a two-for-one deal.  I usually feel guilty for spending money due to a persistent mathematical equation I cannot erase from my mind:  STUDENT LOANS > MY PERSONAL SAVINGS.  

 

The lady at the cash register handed me two bills and a massive pile of coins.  As an American traveling in Europe, I had to adjust my definition of pocket change.  I also needed bigger pockets.  Instead of having bills, there are one and two euro coins.  Like the U.S., Europe has dimes, nickels, pennies, but they have fifty cent pieces instead of quarters.  For whatever reason, someone saw fit to invent a two cent coin. 

The only purpose this coin serves is to take up space in your pocket.  My advice is to keep one as a memento whose existence you can continue to question once you get home.  Should you receive any more of these superfluous coins, give them to a homeless person.  If there are no beggars around, then throw the coin in the trash.  See if anyone follows suit.  A revolution could arise.

The Swiss baffle me even more when it comes to their minting.  In my palm lay a massive five franc coin larger than a Reese’s peanut butter cup.  If I were to live in Switzerland, I’d abandon my wallet and lug around a pot of my coins to do all my shopping.  Swiss banks are the best in the world, I’ve heard, but now I envisioned adult arcades with loads of tokens but no lava lamps or giant plush Pikachus.  As I scrutinized the coins jingling in my pocket, I discovered the secret to Switzerland’s success.

Every time I am loaded down with coins that won’t fit into my wallet, I’ll buy anything just to get rid of them.  I’ve found that while traveling I round up to the nearest euro or Swiss franc.  If a gelato costs me €1.20, I am really dishing out €2 unless I can collect enough twenty-cent pieces to buy a one-way metro ticket. 

I never pay with change at home.  I drop my coins in a bottle.  Once or twice a year when the bottle is full, I wrap the coins and deposit them at the bank.  I’m not in Europe long enough to accrue any wealth, so I sift through small fortunes in my palm to give exact change like the old ladies who dig through their purses and hold up the check-out lanes in the grocery store.

After lunch in Liechtenstein, we drove through the farmlands and quaint villages in the shadow of the snow-capped Swiss Alps.  We stopped in Lucerne, a pleasant town with cobblestone roads and wooden bridges under which the white swans float.  

Determined to spend my loot, I was eager to taste the local cuisine.  Since I already own a Swiss army knife and I already ate a Swiss cheese sandwich, there was only one thing left to buy——chocolate.

Under a glass display case, chocolate bonbons sat, waiting to be devoured.  I only wanted one little piece, but these candies were meant to be purchased in bulk, priced by the kilogram. To avoid being judged and sneered at by the cashier, I avoided the petite treats and found a dark chocolate bar at a reasonable price by Swiss terms. 

I placed the chocolate bar on the counter, and the cashier told me the total in German.  I handed him the coins and he said merci.  I was uncertain how to respond.  I started to say danke but instead thanked the man in French.  I was lost amidst a haze of languages and conversion rates, but luckily I just purchased a cure for all ailments.

I unwrapped the foil and bit into three small blocks of the Swiss chocolate.  I chewed slowly to detect the difference from all the chocolate I’ve ever had before.  The Swiss are said to have mastered the manipulation of cocoa beans.  What I’ve discovered is that the taste of chocolate only varies in degree no matter where it is made. 

Perfection is even more perfect in Switzerland, but indigestion is universal.  No matter where you are in the world, if you consume too much chocolate in such a short period of time, you will pay for it dearly.