Money Ironing
Who doesn't like money? In my experience, the difficult of getting people to give you money has usually massively outweighed the difficulty of getting people to accept money from you. I say 'usually,' because, not for the first time in my experience of Poland, I recently came across a bizarre tale of money refusal.
A friend of mine, who is also a citizen of the islands and has also lived in Poland for several years now, related this story with an expression of astonishment that I can only equate to what you might see on the face of a small child who has just witnessed a coin appearing from behind his ear.
Dropping into a local cafe we have both frequented and enjoyed for years, my friend ordered a coffee and began sorting through his wallet for the means to pay for it. The coffee arrived in good order, and was even accompanied by a free biscuit, so he placed a medium-denomination Polish banknote on the counter and waited for his change.
"I noticed," he said between sips of a restorative stiff drink, "that the note was a little creased, so I smoothed it out and apologised for the poor organisation of my wallet." The barmaid, who had already shown signs of being unlikely to win any courtesy awards, took the banknote with evident distaste and turned to the register to complete the transaction.
This is where it gets weird. I'm already confused as to why a casual employee would care what the money she puts in the till looks like, but a lot of what goes on in customer service situations in Poland confuses me so that's nothing new. The weird part is that she did not restrict her disapproval to a haughty sneer. Instead, she took the notes necessary to provide the change from the till, screwed them up in her hand, and threw them on the counter.
British people are not quick to anger. In fact, when we are insulted, we often adopt the default position that we must have misheard or misunderstood something. My colleague is no different. Assuming this was some new way of passing currency now fashionable among the young, he collected the balled up cash, and took a seat with his coffee. It took several minutes of rumination before he decided the situation was unacceptable.
Returning to the barmaid, who may or may not have been filling her nails in an insolent manner at this point, he asked politely and calmly why she had felt the need to act like a three-year-old who has been asked to eat a plateful of broccoli. Initially answered with a shrug, he pressed her further for a fully verbal answer and received the riposte that the change had been in the same condition as his payment.
Maybe this particular barmaid was having a bad day. Maybe some diamonds fell off her princess tiara or she'd lost a glass slipper. That's fine. I've had days like that, and I'm not going to judge Poles by the behaviour of one girl. What I don't understand is why the physical state of a banknote could be a reason for anyone to freak out.
This is not the first time I have encountered a surprising sensitivity to the condition of paper money in Poland. Years ago, I tried to exchange some British banknotes for zloty at a kantor and was haughtily rebuffed on the grounds that my money was not smooth enough. I explained that money doesn't work that way, but the sunbed-victim behind the glass remained adamant that he would only handle pristine banknotes. Those were the days when it was difficult to obtain money from cash machines using a non-Polish bank card, so I was forced to go home and literally iron my money.
Of course, if a banknote is torn or so dirty that it can't be recognised, there is a risk that it won't be accepted by the bank or by other customers, but do a few creases really matter? Am I breaking a social taboo that I'm unaware of? Should I be polishing my grosz? If so, please let me know and I will simply leave my wallet in my pocket before doing the ironing.
Jamie Stokes
