Guilt Over Fifty Fake Euros: Part II

After several weeks in London, I returned to Italy via a sketchy airline that flew me into Florence for a frighteningly cheap price. Upon landing, a friend of mine told me to meet him at Dolce Vita for an early afternoon drink. I hopped in a cab, my mission of passing Ivan’s evil fake 50 off into the universe hanging over me like an axe. My taxi pulled up by the Arno, I handed over the 50, and the cabbie began making change. I had done it.

Wait.

The cabbie was holding the 50 up to his windshield to catch the light.

“This isn’t a real bill,” he informed me in Italian. His voice emitted sympathy for me, a poor American who’d been swindled (which made me feel even worse for having tried to pawn it off on him).

“Really?” I feigned surprise.

“Where did you get this?” he asked with genuine concern. The answer to that question was WAY too long a story to get into. This cab driver was being FAR too nice. I paid him with other cash and took Ivan’s disgusting bill back, loathing its fake orange color and all it represented.

I poured out the story to my friend (we’ll call him Ape) over vodka tonic. Ape’s codename is extremely fitting since while he IS a very good-looking guy, he tends to walk/stagger kind of like a Neanderthal (especially when drunk) and has a voice scratchier than most dedicated two pack a day Marlboro smokers. With men’s voices there’s sexy gruff and gorilla gruff. My friend Ape was borderline, perhaps a little more the gorilla gruff, and often unintelligible (especially in English). The charm is that he sounds adorable and shit-faced ALL the time.

Anyway… he examined my bill against a real 50…

“Of course this is fake! It’s so obvious see the xx color, xx texture and xx markings.” Clearly he didn’t understand the bill was SLIPPED to me in the DARK. Now I was beginning to feel like a victim. A stupid, trusting, airhead who actually expected Ivan to pay her in REAL money (I mean, he always had before…) This adds further testament to my thesis about how Milan has gone seriously downhill in the past 5 years.

I accompanied Ape to get his hair cut by his childhood friend/barber. I forwent the scissors (those who’ve read my hair sensitivity entries will understand why) and opted only for a wash. Ape dropped me off at San Maria Novella train station where I’d catch a train to the Florence suburbs to meet my one of my best friends and number one partner in crime, Bartok. We’d spend the night at her boyfriend’s place outside of Florence and leave the next morning for August vacation.

After I bought my train ticket, I stood having twenty minutes to kill in the Florence train station (which is an epicenter for petty crimes, pit pockets victimizing foreigners etc.) and knew it was now or never. I didn’t want to carry Ivan’s fake bill with me into the August vacation period. This was my last chance to spend it. Before my train left. Now.

For those of you who don’t know, Italian cell phones function on a pay as you go system. At a Tabacchi (a kiosk which sells candy, cigarettes, and newspapers) you can buy a plastic card worth up to 100 euros. By entering the digits on the back of this card into your phone you activate your credit.

There is ONE Tabacchi in San Maria Novella. The line is long, and transactions are made frantically at lightening speed. I got in line. When I finally emerged in front of one of the many rushing sales men, I asked for a 50 Euro ricarica which he immediately slapped down in front of me. I took the card, slapped down my fake fifty (which he took) and fled the scene. As I ran off, I could see the salesman holding the bill up to the light with one of his co-workers, suspecting its ineligibility. Had I waited a moment longer, they would’ve stopped me.

I hurried into another area of the sweltering, crowded station panting. Would they come after me? The horrible fifty fake Euro girl? Just in case, I changed my hair style, put on a sweater and booked it to my train which thankfully arrived on time. Once I boarded, I knew I was safe.

I had the twenty minute train ride to the suburbs to think about what I had done. During the ride, I entered the card’s digits into my phone and listened to the TIM operator woman inform me that my credit has just been topped up by 50 euros. I remember feeling smug and victorious. I look back on this memory and cringe.

Bartok met me at the suburban station and as we lugged my bag to her place, I recounted this story. Bartok, who always encourages and rationalizes my unethical behavior, told me I was going to Hell.

I console myself with the fact that the owners of the ONLY Tabacchi in San Maria Novella (undoubtedly the busiest and touristy-est train station in all of Italy) have a monopoly on the best Tabacchi location in the planet, and are most likely rolling in dough. I wish I had concrete stats on this, since to this day, the fact that I stooped to Ivan’s level of pawning fake bills is a source of shame.