Throwing money around, the Swiss way.

Well, that’s not really an accurate description. The Swiss are much too discreet for that. If anyone feels like they’re throwing it around, it’s me, thanks to the horrendous exchange rate against the dollar and the high cost of (a pretty wonderful) life. But if you are interested in hearing some of my more accurate observations on the modernly styled, prettily colored Swiss banknotes and their accompanying coins, you’ve found the right post.

As a friend who arrived here on a visit with Euros in hand learned the hard way, Switzerland uses its own currency, the Swiss franc, which is currently valued at slightly more than a dollar. (The country is not in the European Union, thus it’s not in the Eurozone.) Bills here come in denominations of ten, twenty, fifty, one hundred, two hundred, and ... one thousand francs. Unlike in the US, where anything greater than a twenty is eyed suspiciously to the point of not being accepted as payment, here in Switzerland it’s not difficult, or even uncommon, to use a bill of high denomination to buy something as small as a pack of gum.

One of the first times I withdrew money from an ATM here, I received a two-hundred franc note and immediately started worrying about what to do with it. I presented my dilemma to Gilles, who didn't at first understand why I was so concerned. He told me to just go to the supermarket and buy a soda, that there wouldn't be a problem. The next day I did just that, handing over the note hesitatingly. The cashier took it and quickly returned one hundred and ninety-eight francs and fifty centimes in change to me without batting an eye. Oh.

I’ve only seen a thousand-franc note being used a few times (unfortunately, never by me). Once was at a supermarket, where the frail little old lady in line ahead of me tried to pull one, slowly, painfully, out of her wallet. The cashier was advancing the next customer’s groceries on the conveyer belt when the bill slipped from the wallet, landed on the belt, and got sucked around and under. A short moment of panic ensued until the bill was retrieved from the “crumb box” the conveyer belt dumps into and all was put right.

Coins here represent values of five francs, two francs, one franc, fifty centimes, twenty centimes, ten centimes, and five centimes. (No one-centime pieces, which I don’t miss.) When I first arrived, I wasn't used to coins having much real value, since the highest denomination in common circulation in the US is twenty-five cents. It took going through my stash and finding I had close to fifty francs to realize that I should pay a bit of attention to the metal money, too.

Despite having been here quite long enough to accustom myself to them, I still can’t easily distinguish most of the coins. The five-franc piece is easy – it’s huge – and so is the five-centime – it’s tiny, and a different color. All the others resemble each other too much. I still pick through my change like a tourist, turning over the coins to read the denomination. Embarrassing!

The bills are easier to tell apart, since they are different colors, and different sizes, too, increasing with denomination, but I had a mistaken-bill incident that I can’t even blame on miscarriage brain since it occurred before that particular hell presented itself. (Yes, that was an obvious, desperate attempt to tie back to my main theme.) Buying a magazine at a kiosk, I handed over what I thought was a ten-franc note and, expecting only coins in change, closed the billfold portion of my wallet and opened the coin purse for the change. “Here’s three fifty,” said the cashier, giving me the coins, “... and ninety.” Right. The bills. Thanks!