Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This
Money can be a complicated thing, especially if you are a foreigner in a country with a different currency. I have multiple bank accounts in the States, for my own finances, as well as for the missions budget that pays my ministry needs. To get that money in France requires some effort, because writing a check in dollars takes weeks to clear and there is always a commission for the trouble. So I usually just pull out as many euros as I can with my American bank cards and then deposit them straight into my French bank account. That simplifies the process and takes about five minutes.
However, I went to the bank the other morning, intending to do my thing, and the bank machine ate my card. Actually, it “confiscated” it (which incidentally is the same word in French!) so I stood in line for a teller to explain what had happened. She asked me to have a seat in the waiting area, which is over by the offices of the branch manager and the loan officers. I went to wait, clutching my receipt which said “card retained” as proof of my claim.
I was unaware that just prior to my coming into the bank, the branch manager, Madame Carite, had had some type of chest pain and the bank had called in EMTs. They were all in the office right behind my chair and just about the time I sat down, the head EMT came out and called together some of the bank employees to explain that Madame Carite was fine, but he felt that she should lie down since she was feeling very weak. Within moments she came out of her office surrounded by EMTs. From my chair I could see a back staircase, hidden from the rest of the bank; since there was presumably a break room with a couch up there, they escorted her upstairs and she did indeed look shaky.
At this point, nearly every bank employee left their post to hurry up the stairs to see and talk to her. I can certainly understand their concern; if it was one of my co-workers that collapsed, having a supposed heart attack, I am sure I would be concerned as well. But that meant that no one was doing their job, and certainly no one was getting my lost bank card. I was a little worried that the bank machine would spit my card back to the next user and I would never see it again.
After thirty minutes of sitting in the chair, watching all the bank employees hurrying up and down the stairs to gawk at their boss and then whispering anxiously to each other, I started to get annoyed. Having had a prime spot to hear and see everything, I was more informed than many of the employees. Every time one came by, I felt like saying, “Hey, I can tell you the whole story, if you get me MY BANK CARD!” Finally as I was tapping my foot and making passive-aggressive “humpf” sounds designed to get someone’s attention, a young girl asked me who I was waiting to see. I explained what happened to the bank card and she agreed to get right to it.
Nevertheless, since my card was “confiscated” that meant I couldn’t just have it back. They had a whole protocol to follow, involving calling other banks or agencies to verify that the card wasn’t stolen. Fortunately, I had my American driver’s license with me as proof of identity. But it still took another 30 minutes of me sitting there worrying about the fact that I had parked illegally to “run” into the bank. After a full hour, the young girl handed me my card, with the explanation that it was expired, so I should cut it up immediately. Before her very eyes, I started bending it in half, because I don’t ever want to have that problem again.
In other news . . . Has anyone seen Flags of our Fathers yet? I read the book a few years ago, and found it to be a very compelling story. The movie is playing downtown in Bordeaux in English and I’ve been thinking about going to see it. Going downtown is a bit of a hassle, so I haven’t committed myself yet. Just wondered what kind of feedback you all might have.
However, I went to the bank the other morning, intending to do my thing, and the bank machine ate my card. Actually, it “confiscated” it (which incidentally is the same word in French!) so I stood in line for a teller to explain what had happened. She asked me to have a seat in the waiting area, which is over by the offices of the branch manager and the loan officers. I went to wait, clutching my receipt which said “card retained” as proof of my claim.
I was unaware that just prior to my coming into the bank, the branch manager, Madame Carite, had had some type of chest pain and the bank had called in EMTs. They were all in the office right behind my chair and just about the time I sat down, the head EMT came out and called together some of the bank employees to explain that Madame Carite was fine, but he felt that she should lie down since she was feeling very weak. Within moments she came out of her office surrounded by EMTs. From my chair I could see a back staircase, hidden from the rest of the bank; since there was presumably a break room with a couch up there, they escorted her upstairs and she did indeed look shaky.
At this point, nearly every bank employee left their post to hurry up the stairs to see and talk to her. I can certainly understand their concern; if it was one of my co-workers that collapsed, having a supposed heart attack, I am sure I would be concerned as well. But that meant that no one was doing their job, and certainly no one was getting my lost bank card. I was a little worried that the bank machine would spit my card back to the next user and I would never see it again.
After thirty minutes of sitting in the chair, watching all the bank employees hurrying up and down the stairs to gawk at their boss and then whispering anxiously to each other, I started to get annoyed. Having had a prime spot to hear and see everything, I was more informed than many of the employees. Every time one came by, I felt like saying, “Hey, I can tell you the whole story, if you get me MY BANK CARD!” Finally as I was tapping my foot and making passive-aggressive “humpf” sounds designed to get someone’s attention, a young girl asked me who I was waiting to see. I explained what happened to the bank card and she agreed to get right to it.
Nevertheless, since my card was “confiscated” that meant I couldn’t just have it back. They had a whole protocol to follow, involving calling other banks or agencies to verify that the card wasn’t stolen. Fortunately, I had my American driver’s license with me as proof of identity. But it still took another 30 minutes of me sitting there worrying about the fact that I had parked illegally to “run” into the bank. After a full hour, the young girl handed me my card, with the explanation that it was expired, so I should cut it up immediately. Before her very eyes, I started bending it in half, because I don’t ever want to have that problem again.
In other news . . . Has anyone seen Flags of our Fathers yet? I read the book a few years ago, and found it to be a very compelling story. The movie is playing downtown in Bordeaux in English and I’ve been thinking about going to see it. Going downtown is a bit of a hassle, so I haven’t committed myself yet. Just wondered what kind of feedback you all might have.