Shambleshanks, Conqueress of Banks

Due to a completely avoidable and thoroughly inopportune sequence of mishaps, I found myself in the uncomfortable position of owing a dead person 53 cents.

Ah, but I forget myself. Let me take you to the beginning…

I arrived in France with roughly 43 euros and bag of assorted change in my possession. I was not bothered by this circumstance since you get the best exchange rate with credit card transactions anyhow. I figured if I needed to, I’d be able to change some dollars after I’d settled in. I was unscrupulously frivolous with those 43 euros, and soon found that I had only a fiver and a few coins left. Again, not much of a problem, except that everywhere I have been has a minimum requirement for credit cards purchases. My only daily expense is espresso, and I have reservations about the prudence of consuming enough of it to meet the minimum for a credit card transaction.

After my second cider at O’Cardinal’s – had to meet the minimum, after all – I decided to visit the cathedral. O’Cardinal’s has become my favorite bar. I know I’m in France, and maybe should be checking out all the different brasseries available, but there’s something undeniably comforting about an Irish pub. And it is adjacent to the cathedral, which makes it the perfect place to wait on the bus after mass. I was wandering in the church, marveling at the extensive work of tromp l’oeil, when I caught sight of a hand. It has been some time since I’ve been in Europe, and I forgot about the proliferation of incorruptibles in churches. Therefore, I was a bit surprised to see the quill-wielding hand on display. Naturally, my reaction was something along the lines of, “Oh sweet, whose is that?” Well, as it turns out, no one really knows. The sign says simply, “hand of the exhumed saint of Annecy.”

I find this a bit perplexing. The only thing that makes sense to me is that when the former Franciscan chapel was being converted into the cathedral, the graves were dug up and the bodies moved. Someone must have stumbled on the hand and thought the same thing I did, “Who does this belong to? Eh, don’t know, but we should definitely keep it out.” Okay, it makes sense so far; there have been other reports of only certain body parts being incorrupt, like St. Vincent de Paul’s heart. Here’s the thing that really gets me though. Who decided to put the quill in the hand? Why, having no idea who this person was, do you assume writer? Why not confessor? That seems likely. Or cook? Well on second thought, a hand holding a chef’s knife in a glass case might be pushing the line. I digress, however.

Continuing my circuit, I decided to light a candle. Instead of one collection box for buying the candles, the instructions say to drop payment in the box beneath the statue in front of which you light the candle. Joan of Arc doesn’t have a box, so I was saved having to choose between her and Thérèse. After lighting my candle and saying a prayer, I put my hand in my pocket to pull out the requisite euro. Which is when I remember I am a bit strapped. I pull out all my coins – I have 47 cents. I realize I could have been magnanimous or taken out a line of candle-credit and dropped in my five, but prudence urged me to keep a hold of my last bill. “Alright Saint Thérèse,” I bargained, “I’m getting more money tomorrow, I’ll pay you back then.” It seemed so simple. How wrong I was.

The next day, I met with absolutely no success. There is no “Bureau de Change” in Chambéry. All the banks turned me away. Some didn’t even let me in. And nowhere online or in print can I find a clear answer about where to change cash. Remember the sequence of avoidable mishaps? One of them was forgetting my debit card. I can take a cash advance on my credit card, but that immediately starts accruing 25% interest. It would be cheaper to take the bus to Geneva and change my money in Switzerland. It says right on their tourism website, “exchange your money at any Swiss bank.” And let’s be real, who doesn’t want a good excuse to go in a Swiss bank? So, after hours of walking, several extraordinarily rude French bankers, and nothing for my trouble except for getting called “sir” over the intercom, I still couldn't pay Saint Thérèse back.

The best way I can describe the feeling of finding myself in monetary debt to a saint is that my heart felt itchy. I figured I’d pay back the next day, so I hadn’t bothered to negotiate any sort of interest rate. Also, strictly speaking, I’m fairly certain you’re not supposed to only pay for half of something then come back later. Unless you’re in Ward, then they’re happy to be paid back their $7.92 a year later. I went to bed that night thinking that Switzerland would be my best option. I’ve been wanting to get over there anyhow, why not sooner rather than later?

The next day, however, I awoke with an unparalleled optimism. I had this crazy thought, “what if you don’t go to Geneva today? What if you go to the post office instead?” And I was somehow cheered by this. I can’t explain it. But it was the kind of morning where you believe the world is your oyster. After my morning calisthenics, I even decided to go for a run. I am unsure whether it was a moment of inspiration or a moment of vanity, but I laced up my shoes and was out the door, stretching my stride like a gazelle and breathing in the fresh mountain air. Or, rather, I was for the two minutes before my lungs decided that they wanted none of this running business and my weak ankle thought it would be a good idea to join the rebellion my lungs were fomenting.

What is the difference between a run and jog? Is there some definitive speed that delineates the difference? Is it form and grace? Is it the amount of physical exertion required? Because if we’re going by speed, I was likely jogging. If we’re going by grace, then I think “shambling” would be the proper verb. But if we’re going by physical exertion required, then I was world class running, and that’s what it felt like. You know, besides the whole crumbling apart and not breathing thing.

Before departing my subterranean lair, I remarked that it was an exceptional hair day. No “sirs” for me today, no way. Arriving at Les Halles, I walked confidently to the post office. I was so certain it would work, that I didn’t even pose it as a question. “Bonjour!” I said brightly, “I’d like to exchange my money, please.”

“No,” at least she’s nice, not like the jerk bankers, “not here, but you can at the big post office by the train station.”

Nailed it.

I imagine she must have been a bit confounded by my profuse thanks, but I didn’t bother explaining what an ordeal it had been thus far. Furthering my world-oyster-success, walking back from the main post office I finally managed to find a place with good espresso. It’s a little cart attached to a bike – the roast is good, the barista is competent, and it’s one euro. And now that I have cash at hand, I don’t have to buy ten shots to meet the credit card minimum.

Oh, and I should mention...

...I paid back St. Thérèse. With interest. 

The Brevity Report:

• I changed dollars to euros