CALL THE BANK...wait...

I made a rather disarming discovery today. Apparently, in my mind, Ireland is Massachusetts with a different accent.

            I realized that my brain was of this opinion upon examining my bank statement. On Sunday I withdrew $80 from an ATM. Today when I opened the statement, the history showed an ATM withdrawal of $105. Red flag number one. The first thing I thought was, “That’s one hell of a service charge.” Then I thought of my pre-departure phone call to the bank when I was assured I would not be charged any additional fees for using my card abroad. Red flag number two. I distinctly remembered withdrawing S80 from the ATM. Then I thought, “Did I accidentally withdraw $100?” No, I couldn’t have. Did I drop a $20? No, I’m always careful with my money. Did I lose my card? No, it was still in my wallet, and besides, if someone had stolen it, there would have been charges to it on the statement. The where the hell did my $25 go?

            I was at a loss. I couldn’t call my bank from here; the roaming charge on my local phone would be astronomical. So then I turned to the one person every college student turns to when things get scary—Mom. I whipped open a new email and was halfway through asking her to call the bank and figure out what was going on, was there some kind of charge or fee, when the part of my brain that had not fully evolved to human-level intelligence finally caught up. Oh. OH. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

            That’s right. My brain, which has now had a full week to recover from jet lag, still forgot that the money I withdrew from the ATM [in Dublin] was in Euros, and my statement [from my bank in Connecticut] was in American dollars. And the two were not equivalent.

            Maybe it was just one of the speed bumps of culture shock, forgetting about the currency change. Maybe it happens to many an inexperienced traveler.

            Or maybe it has to do with the fact that Dublin actually does have a lot in common with Boston. They both hate the British, for example. They’re both major cities that combine a rich historical heritage with modernity—historic landmark buildings sit next to contemporary office buildings. Tourists abound; buses rumble past and always get way too close to the curb; taxis honk their horns at unnecessary times. Pubs down winding cobblestone alleys play local sports and serve up pints. Nearly everyone speaks English, though sometimes it’s with an unintelligible accent of elongated vowels and dropped consonants. But Boston and Dublin are 3,000 miles apart (don’t ask me how many kilometers that is because I don’t know and I don’t care) and are in two different countries with different histories and cultures. And, as I was forcefully reminded, with two different currencies.

            So although it’s a different country, being abroad in Ireland is not the same as I imagine it would be to be in a vastly different place, such as Egypt or South Africa, where reminders that you are in a different culture are everywhere. Once again I have to compensate because my perceptions don’t match reality.

            However, there is a Dublin tradition I also discovered today that I have not witnessed before. New blog post coming soon: American Hunting.