The Rate Of Exchange

Although from sunny Arizona, Julia was pale with blond hair and blue eyes. Walking alone down the middle of the avenue in her party clothes at 3 am on one of the longest nights of the year in Buenos Aires, she must have looked a bit like a neon sign that read 'gringa'. It was not usually a problem finding a taxi at any time of the day or night in this city but this was Puerto Madero. And even though it was Puerto Madero she was nervous. So, when headlights pierced the drizzly gloom she didn't care that it wasn't a Radio Taxi. Anything with a 'libre' sign would do.

Her driver wasn't particularly friendly. In fact, he seemed inconvenienced by her patronage. He didn't inspire any confidence in Julia when she told him the address of her host family in Caballito. It was going to be a long ride. In the silence, the dark gloomy night inspired Julia to contemplate the events of the evening with her new friends. She had been on a first date with a fellow American student and he had not only 'dumped' her but hadn't even the courtesy to see that she got home safely. Julia's respect for men had subsequently slipped a notch. Suddenly, the car jolted from an explosion outside and under her seat. A flat tire. Shit. No other cars in sight, no radio, this was just the kind of thing her parents were worried would happen to her.

Ther taxista insisted that she leave and find another cab. There was no way she was going out into the night again by herself. And, because she had a heart as big as the Grand Canyon, she couldn't, in good conscience, leave him stranded in his time of need. She would wait while he changed the tire. With nothing else to do but stand and wait – she watched him fumble. When she saw him attempting to loosen the nuts without first raising the car she realized that he had no idea what a jack was for. Now she was really worried.

This is like a bad dream. I don't believe it.

Thank goodness Juiia's father had made sure that she knew how to maintain a vehicle. He had taught her how to change a tire. She was a woman who knew how to get things done and she just wanted to get home to bed. Grabbing the jack, she shoved it under the back bumper and pumped up the car. While she finished loosening the the nuts another taxi approached. She was aware that she must have appeared somewhat like an apparition in his headlights in this absurd situation. The driver got out and began speaking to her driver in Spanish. Julia's understanding of the language was limited but she was able to discern by gesture and intonation that the other driver was making fun of her driver.

Great. As if his ego wasn't already as deflated as this tire. We could use some help here not ridicule.

But any help that may have been offered became a fantasy as an argument ensued between the two men which resulted in the most recent arrival leaving. Why didn't she escape with him? Because Julia was in the middle of a job and she never left anything undone.

The whole job only took her about seven minutes. If she hadn't been so angry and exhausted she would have enjoyed a feeling of pride. If her dad had been there and not yelling at her out of fear for the stupidty of her actions – he would have been proud too.

“Terminado”. Let's get the hell out of here and home.

Now, it's hard to know at this point whether the taxista began taking her 'for a ride' or whether he was attempting to take her home by the most direct circuitous route. Julia prefered to believe in the good intentions of people. Unable to call for assistance, once again, her driver kept referring to his map. If you've ever driven or traveled by taxi in this city you know that you don't even get behind the wheel until you have at least the equivalent of an Undergraduate Degree in navigation. This driver couldn't possibly be porteno. He must have come in from the country looking for what he thought would be easy work.

Julia was fuming . . . patiently . . . any time now she would be warm and dry, sleeping in her bed. After giving him a few instructions on where to turn, they finally arrived at the casa.

The fare was a whopping 30 pesos. She could only cover that with a 100 peso note.

“Tenes cambio?”

“No.”

Of course not. It was common knowledge that nobody in this city was going to admit to having any change. Taxi drivers were among the worst. It was illogical that they could be driving people around all night receiving fares and still have no change. One hundred pesos was not a lot of money. But he insisted. What was Julia supposed to do - magically pull the correct amount out of the air? They were deadlocked.

She imagined the police being called should she run from the car without paying. She imagined being one of those young women you hear about living in a tortuous foreign prison without bail – her Embassy and her parents having to negotiate her release with Argentine government officials.

In this moment getting to her bed was more important than keeping a lousy hundred pesos. Her overwhelming frustration combined with apathy and an inborn sense of generosity would have her just give him the entire bill and be done with it. In the final split second of the moment, Julia looked down at the weathered bill in her small, grease-stained, hands in the lap of what used to be her new white dress. Then, she did the unconscionable. She tore the paper, thrust half of it at the driver and bolted from the cab.