The cost of currency

Foreign currency fascinates me.  The unusual shapes and colors.  Even the texture.  The feel of the foreign currency in Mexico was particularly odd:  soft and fluffy. Not only that, it was bright blue.  Suspension of reality must be employed when one enters a resort environment.  My American money was eclipsed in value by towel cards.  These magical towel cards are distributed with great discretion:  one per person.  You carefully take your prescribed card to a happy little hut and exchange the little piece of plastic for a great big, bright blue, soft and fluffy towel.  You are entrusted to guard this fabric with your very life.  Should you fail in this mission, you will be unable to retrieve your card at the end of your visit, your name goes on a list, and you will be unable to leave the country with any amount of dignity.

Obviously, this established economic structure is a tad flimsy.  Everywhere you look, there is a sea of blue.  Your initial vigilance begins to relax and you find yourself wandering further and further from your towel.  Occasionally, you lose eye contact with your towel.  You then abandon your towel altogether like its a baby at a gas station.

Chuckie and I made the mile or so trek back to where we'd left our towels beneath the shade of a tropical umbrella next to the pool on our way to the spa.  We scooped up our towels and headed off down one of the seemingly endless paths of the resort. A stern voice stopped our steps and we turned to see a rather large man headed our way, gesturing madly.  "I think we should run," I whispered to Chuck from the side of my mouth.  But it was too late, my father-in-law faced this potential crisis head-on.  Interpreting the wild pointing, demonic, accusatory stare and barrage of German shouting, I believe that this nut thought that Chuck and I stole his towels.  Naturally, Chuck responded to this with some impressive gesturing of his own while I hugged my towel to my chest like it was a baby monkey and shouted, "My towel...my towel."  We all headed back to the scene of the crime where the German man's wife was keeping a stern eye on my waiting mother-in-law who too, was clutching a blue towel to her chest and insisting, "My towel...my towel."  The Mexican man from the happy little hut emerged and the great United Nations debate ensued.  It was the tower of Babel all over again.  Justice finally prevailed and the good guys were sent off down the happy trail with their soft and fluffy blue towels.

Several hours later, Brad shed an illuminating light on the situation.  The true culprit in the towel caper was our Aunt Pat.  Fearful of leaving our towels unattended, she'd gathered them up and stored them in her room.  The Germans then arrived, "invading" our territory, and planted their blue flags.  Oblivious, Chuck and I returned and took "our" towels.  Wait.  What?  I wasn't the good guy?  I was guilty of petty larceny on foreign soil?  Brad returned the stolen merchandise to the Germans accompanied by another enthusiastic round of gesturing.  I'm pretty sure my husband made humorous wide circular motions with his pointer finger towards the side of his head while everyone laughed.  Well...I certainly wasn't laughing.  What sort of warped resort was this that assigned such an unrealistic value on towels so that people would be willing to battle, conceivably to the death, to protect them?  It was with a great deal of relief that I exchanged my towel for the plastic card and then returned the plastic card to the hotel front desk to be granted clearance to leave this awful, awful place.  I could return to normalcy, my home where the almighty dollar rules and no one ever argues about it.