The value of foreign currency fluctuates relative to the value of the dollar. Having lived in Italy for nearly seven years, I am well aware of this fact. Other members of my immediate family, however, are not.
When we got here in August of 2002, it was possible to purchase a euro for 97.8 U.S. cents. Or so I believed when I presented myself at the Banca di Sicilia at 9 a.m. to convert $19,000 in traveller's checks and open an account. After a small computer glitch was resolved several hours later, the rate of the euro had risen to 99.6 U.S. cents, and I had lost $351 and considerable patience. It was then that I learned of the hefty fees imposed to close a bank account in Italy ($68, in my case).
Nonetheless, those were banner days and I gloated over our low rent and the inexpensive wine we drank. The price of wine has remained relatively reasonable during out stay here. Unfortunately, nothing else has. Each subsequent trip to the bank brought worse news: the euro quickly broke the dollar mark, reached $1.10 with ease, and soon forded that mighty river: $1.32.
This prompted a lecture. In our clan, it is a long-acknowledged truth that only I care what things cost. Why worry yourself with trivialities when Dad's there to fret and remind you the orange you're savoring cost the equivalent of 85 American cents? Still, I felt it my duty to sit the family down and explain that things were now 33% more expensive than when we'd arrived. "But prices haven't changed," said two of my less alert relatives in unison. "Right," I explained, "but they have for us because our money's in dollars." "Then why do I have all these?" asked my son, exposing a wallet thick with euros. I turned to my wife: "Why does he have all those?"
As the euro strengthened to $1.45, I awoke each day with a churning stomach. My daughter scolded me: "Stop looking at that stupid graph on the financial page of the paper. Is the value of the dollar all you care about?" "You're right," I smiled, "money doesn't really matter when you have enough." Then I read that Warren Buffett had bought millions in euros shortly before our arrival in Europe. He explained: "The euro had to go up." More churning.
Each item brought into the house raised my hackles. The price of fruit in an imprudently-purchased ceramic bowl ($38; wife) mocked me. I mentally calculated the value of the assorted bananas, pears, and apples, then sat in stunned silence. "Why's Dad staring at fruit?" asked my daughter. "He's counting," responded my son. A bright red rubber ball ($16; son) drew my ire as did a Christmas ornament ($9; daughter).
Then there was the fish. At $1.54 to the euro, I realized the flounder in front of us had cost more than $29. "Everyone stop eating," I barked, "this is an emergency. We are now at the point where it would be cheaper to consume all our meals in a mid-priced restaurant in Manhattan." My son brandished a lemon, made an unfunny joke, and was sent from the table. In 2008, when the euro surpassed $1.60, I bought a price scanner (calibrated to those at our local market) in order to ascertain what each product carried over our threshold had actually cost (duplicitous family members having long ago learned not to bring home receipts).
One afternoon, in response to what was perhaps an annoying query from me along the lines of, "How much did you pay for that ludicrously large soda?," my wife had the misfortune to answer, "Three dollars." "No," I said firmly, "you paid three euros." "Same thing," came her reply. Then, in a voice that woke a neighbor, I resorted to a modifier: "Euros are not fucking dollars. Three euros is four dollars and eighty fucking cents."
A cluster of grapes for which my son paid in excess of seven dollars precipitated my seizure of all financial responsibility. Without my written permission, no one else in the family is allowed to purchase: airline tickets, suntan lotion, meat, quality umbrellas or clothing, tickets to a concert featuring any artist under the age of 50 (subsequently raised to 70 after my daughter saw James Taylor in Padua), fruit grown in Chile, and anything imported from the United States or manufactured here under license from an American company (two boxes of Oreos and a pint of Haagen-Dazs; son).
When the euro hit $1.62, my wife started to notice: "This bathmat would have cost a lot less in the States." I stared at her. "What?" she asked, "Why are you clenching and unclenching your fists?" "It's nothing," I answered, "you said a true thing." "Well," she grinned, "at least there's an upside: Warren Buffett's making a ton. Wait," she said, eyeing me warily, "stop moving toward me. You look scary."
And then it stopped: the dollar started to fall. Like my worst enemy shoved from a great height on to a bed of nails, it plummeted: $1.55, $1.48, $1.42, $1.36, $1.28, $1.239672. I woke one morning and turned to my wife: "It's finished," I gasped, "no more churning." I'd been worse off than Italians for almost a decade; now I was finally luckier. I couldn't believe our good fortune. "Why is this happening?" I asked in a daze. "Don't you know?" she said, "The economy's tanking. There's a worldwide crisis. The good times are over."
