Descending through the fireworks of Bastille Day the night we crossed into Switzerland, and trying to find the hotel in the rain, we couldn't be bothered with the exchange rate for Swiss Francs. We wanted to tip the small man who wheeled the bread and fruit into our room the next morning, but we wished to hand him a nickel's worth of scrip less than what, for all we knew, could have matched a hundred dollar bill. So we smiled, and hoped that our jet-lagged smiles would provide some sort of defense for the ignorant on holiday.

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