Changing money in the USA

Yesterday it was no problem at all to change money near 5th Avenue. Today I was far away, looking for a car on Northern Boulevard in Long Island. The experience was so awesome that it will be the only one I describe today.

Me: Hi, can I change money here?

Banker: How, money?

Me: Yes, just euros in US dollars. I show the euros.

Banker: Gets big eyes, looks at me like an alien. Oh, so you mean exchanging money, changing practically?

Me: silently thinks to myself: Yep. Just as I said, you arsehole. Hand him the euros.

Banker: looks very closely at the banknotes, feels them, seems to smell them. Looks around for help. Just runs into the back room with the money without me or him counting it again first. Apparently makes sure in the back that banks really do deal with money. Apparently he easily gets positive promises from the back. Comes to the front again. Counts the money. Stop. Counts it wrong. Again. Looks around again to help, waves another employee over. Together they manage to establish a specific amount.

Me: I ‘m about to shake his hand through the armoured glass, congratulate him on his achievement and encourage him in his future actions. His forehead is getting wetter and wetter, which worries me. That wasn’t my intention.

Banker: Starts to rummage for forms and fill them in with shaky fingers. Must have been about 8 pages in total. Do you have a passport with you?

Me: Here you go.

Banker: And a credit card?

Me: I don’t want anything from the credit card, just to exchange money. Hand him the credit card in silence. The queue behind me has now grown to about 10 potential ex-customers.

Banker: shakily grabs the card, notes everything down conscientiously on several forms, gets help from other employees several times while the first drop of sweat from his forehead moistens a form and his left hand clutches my money tightly. He counts the money again, then hands it to a second employee, who counts it much more professionally: 100s of coins, 50s of coins, 20s of coins. Very impressive.

Me: tapping my fingers. Behind me, the first sounds of displeasure begin to emerge from the queue, which has now grown to 15 potential ex-customers.

Banker: luckily he doesn’t notice. Otherwise he would be sweating even more. Counts the money again. He is constantly waving for help to fill in forms or to find out which ones are still needed. His calculator is in danger of dying from a moisture-induced short circuit. Do you know that there are charges for this?

Me: Yes, of course. Or do you only give Martians with opals as currency an 8% discount on the exchange rate? I look around. 20 scowling Latinos. I think I can smell rotten tomatoes and eggs. But the airspace is still clean. Would eggs penetrate armoured glass?

Banker: finally manages to work out the correct payout amount. Slips a small bundle of sweaty dollar bills through my slot.

Me: refrains from wiping the notes with a handkerchief. He’s Latino, just like the 25 annoyed potential ex-customers behind me. I pull my head down between my shoulders, stuff the money into my trouser pocket and leave the bank after 30 minutes at a run.

Conclusion: Credit cards in the USA are practical, fast and cheap.
Cash is complicated, takes ages and is expensive as hell.
But much more amusing.