The dramatics must be catching. I almost threw a fit this morning in the bank when they told me they still didn’t have my check book they were supposed to give me a week ago. They did have my bank card. They do not, however, change American dollars into Euros on Saturdays. But the Post office just across the street does. However this post office, as opposed to the one by the train station where I’ve been happily cashing checks for weeks, has noticed that my passport signature does not match the one on my traveler's checks. Yes, I signed my passport a good six years ago. My signature looks different now. I nearly launch into a tirade of pathos, bemoaning my useless travelers checks and imploring the young man at la poste, must I get another passport? What is one to do, stranded in a country with a passport that does not show your very signature? Go to the tourist office, he says. They’ll probably take it.

They do. And they only charge me two euros for their service; less than the bank, which charges five, but more than the post office, which does it for free. Oh well. What really brings tears to my eyes is the exchange rate; or rather, how few euros the remainder of my dollars are good for.

So I deposit my money, nearly crumbling again when I realize I don’t know whether she’s put the money in my checking or savings account, then again when she tells me they’re in a compte courante and I have no idea what that means. I just gave them one of the five id numbers they’ve given me. At the time they asked me how many I wanted and, when I kept acting confused, would switch to English for the poor American didn’t understand. The poor American, indeed, understands the language. She’s still just trying to figure out why one would require more than one bank identity number. For security, they keep telling me, but what does that accomplish? Indeed, in every bank in Rouen, you have to ring at the outside door until it unlocks, then pass into the interdoor chamber and rep