A Scary Campfire Tale about Money

When Brad and I went to Italy, the actual process of getting there was a long and strenuous journey that consisted of a trolley, two trains, and an eight hour plane ride. And that was just to get us to the airport in Rome; after we finally managed to leave there, we had a train, a subway, and a tram still ahead of us. It was certainly difficult, but one small event stuck in the middle of all that travel was what ended up really causing problems. That small event occurred in the Rome airport.

We de-boarded our plane in a timely and simple manner. We didn’t have any trouble clearing security (the Italian security/customs department is refreshingly, and scarily, lax). Though we waited a while for our bags, we eventually retrieved them without a hitch as well. No, all the places in airports where people normally experience problems gave us no issue whatsoever. It was when we were on our way to the train station and we stopped at the ATM that we became, for lack of a better term, “tripped up.”

I had been told, by Italy frequenters and bank tellers alike, that the cheapest and simplest option for obtaining foreign currency was to use the ATM as soon as you landed and to take out as large a sum of money as your withdrawal allowance would permit. ATMs gave the best exchange rate, and as long as you took out a lot of money at once, the international ATM fees would be worth it. We expected no problems with this method. Why would we?

I went first. I took out 150 Euros (about $212) without a problem. I received my card, my receipt, and my money (in that order), and stepped aside to let Brad take his turn. He opted to take out the same amount of money. After a minute, he received his card and his receipt. He waited.

“Um, where’s my money?” he asked uncertainly.

“Oh, mine came out last too,” I replied. “Just wait a second, it will come out.”

We waited more than a second. We waited more than a couple of seconds.

“Um.”

I’m not really sure how to describe the state of panic into which you are thrown when you’re given a receipt that states that you have just withdrawn a giant amount of money, but you actually haven’t. I’m also not sure how to convey the degree to which this state of panic becomes magnified when this occurs in a foreign country which you’ve inhabited for a total of approximately thirty minutes, and when you (like Brad) do not speak a word of the language that is native to said foreign country.

You’ll just have to take my word that what we were feeling at this moment was very, very unpleasant.

“I don’t… I don’t know what to…why did it…” We stuttered back and forth at each other for a second, at a total loss for words and ideas. Brad, as the one who didn’t speak Italian and had virtually no knowledge of how anything worked in this country, was waiting for me, as the one who had been studying both the language and the culture for the past nine years, to come up with an idea.

I, who had her money safely in hand, and who had also gotten no sleep on the plane, was totally blanking.

We stood in front of the ATM for a minute or two, reluctant to leave for fear that it should suddenly spit out Brad’s money and fall into the hands of someone who was, well, not Brad. But when the lady in line behind us started making angry noises, we surrendered and stepped aside, praying that maybe the machine was just out of money and that the next woman wouldn’t receive hers either, and then we’d have a somewhat believable complaint. But no: we watched miserably as she used the ATM without a problem and walked away with her money (and only her money; we were careful to count the bills in her hand) as though the world of someone near her was not falling apart.

The only thing I could think of was to talk to someone at the Information desk nearby. We shuffled over to it, weak from trying to suppress our panic and also from carrying two weeks’ worth of luggage around the airport, and had a brief conversation (in English) with the woman behind the desk, who told us to go talk to someone at the bank down at the end of the corridor. It sounded promising, so we trundled back down the hall with a small amount of hope-inspired gusto.

After a brief period of a completely pointless inability to open the door to the bank (“I think it says ‘push.’ No wait, maybe that means ‘pull.’ Just push. Okay, try to pull. Push again?”), we successfully gained entry and approached the kind-looking teller.

I paused, ready for my first opportunity to use my Italian in a real-life setting. I had been waiting for this moment for the past six months. I’d been having practice conversations with myself in my head when I was bored on the way home from work. I had learned the word for “Bug” so I could tell people the names of my cats, for God’s sake. I was prepared. I opened my mouth.

Nine years of study and a minor certificate in Italian, and all I could do was hold the receipt out feebly in my sweaty hand, point to it, and croak, “Ma… no soldi…” (“but… no money…”).

He looked at me for a second, trying to make sense of the situation: two sweaty, dirty, luggage-clad young foreigners come into his bank ten minutes after it opens, blurt a few words of broken Italian at him, and then put on a sad face to help convey the meaning of whatever it was they just said. But that bank teller- bless his poor, good-looking soul- managed to understand me. He whipped out a form, and, after asking me if he could proceed in Italian (I admit now that I probably should have asked him to switch to English, but I was too proud at the time), told me what to do. He checked a box on the form, asked me to fill out Brad’s information, made photocopies of the form, the receipt, and Brad’s bank card, and explained that the money would be deposited back into his account within the next day or two (I think).

It was that simple. We didn’t even have to convince him we weren’t lying. I’m pretty sure our sad faces and my violently shaking, panic-stricken hand as I filled out the paperwork were all the proof he needed. After thanking him profusely (at least “thank you” is a word I’ve heard and used enough times in class to be unable to forget), we left, satisfied, off to the next leg of our transportation nightmare.

The only lasting problem from this debacle was that the bank never refunded Brad’s money. I’m not sure if the teller told me that another step was necessary and I just didn’t understand him, or if the error was on the bank’s part. But we held on to all the necessary documents, and a week or two after we got back home, Brad called his own bank and they gave him his money without a problem, promising to investigate the situation.

I’m not sure why we didn’t just do that in the first place, but I think it has something to do with my pride (again), being in Italy at the time, and the name "Bank of America."

Giving Money to Beggars: A Reference Guide

I think that the question of whether or not to give money to someone on the street who asks for it is an important one for people who live in or frequent the city. I’ve found that it comes up a lot in conversation. Everybody has an opinion on it, which is good, because you had better have your mind already made up when someone actually approaches you on the street to ask for change. Stopping to think about it is tacky and it could get you robbed. Also, nobody likes it when you stop walking on a busy sidewalk to think about something. You’re holding up the flow of traffic, damn it. Keep it moving.

In many beggar encounters, it’s pretty easy to decide whether or not to give someone money. Usually, you can just say no and move along. But sometimes there are more complicated situations that may befuddle your sense of morals and ethics. So, in an effort to aid those of you who are unsure about beggar etiquette, allow me to share a few personal experiences and the verdicts I reached/wish I had reached at the time.

Situation 1: Two Loud Fat Ladies Ask Me For Food

I was at a lunch truck in Center City a few months ago, grabbing a quick hot dog while running errands for work. Two fat, middle-aged, unkempt women approached me (I could hear them yelling to each other a block away) and asked me, very abrasively, to buy them something to eat from the truck. “I just want a muffin,” one of them said, “a muffin and a bag of chips.”

When the subject comes up in conversation, I’ve always said that I would give a beggar food or even a Septa token instead of money, so I know that the money isn’t going toward drugs or something. And also, being hungry sucks, no matter who you are.

These women, however, did not appear to be malnourished in any way. They obviously had enough energy to waddle down the streets of Center City, yelling at each other at a completely inappropriate volume. Not to mention, their request came out quite rudely, which was offensive to me. How are you going to ask a total stranger, who has absolutely no obligation to you, to use his/her hard-earned money to buy you something without being the least bit polite about it?

Nonetheless, I remembered what I had always said: that giving food to beggars was usually okay. It wasn’t like they were asking for a steak dinner or anything. When it comes down to it, food is food, and who was I to deny someone a basic human necessity if I was able to provide it? Even though these women looked fat and rude, I had no real way of knowing their story. Maybe they had some medical problems that made them fat and rude and also unable to provide shelter for themselves. So I bought them what they asked for, albeit begrudgingly, and they shuffled on their way.

Verdict: Give food if you can

Situation 2: Sad-Looking Guy Pleads for Change

There’s a middle-aged guy that hangs around Center City who always recites the same plea to no one in particular, but to everyone at the same time: “Homeless and hungry, anything will help.” He never directly asks you for change, so you never feel guilty if you don’t give him anything. I see him around almost every day. In the mornings he’s by the subway, and sometimes he re-words his plea to ask for some change so he can buy a cup of coffee. I have no way of knowing what his story is. There’s no way to speculate what any of their stories are, for that matter. But he’s polite, non-invasive, and clearly trying to get things somewhat together (why else would he need that morning cup of coffee?).

So one afternoon, when I passed him on the corner, calling out his chant, I handed him a dollar. He thanked me profusely, his voice full of bashful gratitude. He was so ashamed to have to be taking money from a stranger, but so thankful that I gave it to him. After so many years spent begging all day every day, and so many people passing him by, he still has enough kindness in his heart to be truly thankful for any donations. That’s a good guy.

Verdict: Give the nice guy money

Situation 3: Guy With A Story Stops To Talk

There’s not that many beggars in my neighborhood in West Philly. But when you do run into them, they catch you off guard, because they’re usually just walking down the street like any normal person, without any overt signs of homelessness. I think that’s how this guy essentially surprised me into agreeing to give him money one afternoon as I walked home from the trolley. He stopped me on the sidewalk- made me pull out my earphones and everything- to explain to me that he’d just gotten out of the hospital and he needed money to get home to Upper Darby. He showed me his hospital bracelet as he assured me he wasn’t homeless, he just needed to get home. I, caught off guard, gave the dude and his hospital bracelet the benefit of the doubt, and handed over a few quarters. Pleased, he thanked me repeatedly as I wished him luck and continued on my way.

A few weeks later, I had a very routine outpatient procedure done at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. Upon checking in, they gave me a hospital bracelet that looked exactly like the one the beggar had shown me- the one I had taken as “proof” that he must be telling the truth. I realized that a hospital bracelet easily distracts from the fact that you have no other characteristics of someone who has recently required hospitalization. It’s a lot easier to fake hospitalization than I had originally thought.

Verdict: Consider all aspects before you believe a beggar’s story/ Don’t give money to a guy with a hospital bracelet