The Euro and the Paradox

Having researched French economic policy prior to our trip, I knew we'd use the euro. In fact, I was prepared to have a detailed conversation about the advisability of the eurozone, the impracticality of the Maastricht Treaty, and why no one should ever share a hotel room with Dominique Strauss-Kahn. What I was not prepared for was the strange experience of actually using the euro.

Euros come in bills and coins, similar to dollars and cents in the US.  The bills look like Monopoly money - brightly colored, with strange pictures and shiny numbers, they hardly seem real. The coins are weighty (imagine how much heavier your purse would be if you had coins instead of one-dollar bills), and are silver, gold, and copper.

Using euros is always an adventure, even after getting past the 1.43 dollars : 1 euro exchange rate. Paying for a meal in coins feels charming, small, and ancient. In NYC, unless I'm buying a slice of $1 pizza, I can't afford a meal in coins. Here in Paris, I pay for many quick meals on the street (and even whole grocery store trips) solely in change. When I hand the crepe man a few coins for his efforts, I feel connected with all the people who have been paying for their daily bread in coins for thousands of years. Handing someone a piece of paper with my president's portrait on it feels like a joke compared to the tangible reality of a piece of cold metal that can bring a warm panini.

As much as our dollar bills feel a little flimsy and arbitrary at times, euro bills seem almost ridiculous. Their bright colors and famous landmarks feel more like I'm Passing Go than participating in a legitimate economic transaction. These pieces of paper can somehow magically be exchanged for anything - silk scarves, bowls of soupe a l'oignon, or designer dresses that cost more than my apartment in NYC. These pieces of big confetti are worth more than the dollars that I use every day, and for no real reason other than that they are symbols of stability. There is no inherent worth in them, but they stand for something big.

This paradox in currency, the ancient and tangible combined with the modern and arbitrary, matches the mood of Paris. Everywhere I am surrounded by beautiful buildings: palaces, cathedrals, and bridges that are all older than my country. Paris has a rich and solid history, with Christian roots that hark back beyond the Middle Ages. The love that moved the saints, edified in stained glass throughout this city, began in Israel even longer ago — when a coin in a fish's mouth could pay the tax owed by a foreign government. Next to these antique and sacred places are automobiles and mobile phones, storefronts and internet cafes, American pop music and Bueno bars. Today's post-postmodern ennui points to a flimsy reality that only means anything because we say it does. The political stability the euro stands for masks a host of problems — the spiraling debt in the eurozone, the devastation of a political leader, and the complicated system of government in France. A 100-euro bill may be able to buy any number of things, but none of it matters if Nietzsche is right, and God is dead. The euro bills are big numbers printed on bright slips, full of the fun and convenience of modernity, but ultimately devoid of any real and lasting value.

As I marvel at the paradox of cheap, mass-produced rubber erasers being sold inside beautiful, sacred, old Saint-Chappelle, I also marvel that the currency of a nation could so reflect its paradoxical state. A nation and a city that seems both so full and so empty.

~Alexandra