Once as a much younger, less experienced man, I found myself without one cent of cash in Paris. We were there with the kids and I left them in a park with their mother crying for a cool drink (the kids, not their mother).
Much of our holiday was paid for in advance but Europe is a cash hungry place. Many establishments simply do not take credit cards. We had taken minimal cash expecting to draw from the masses of ATMs which would be standing there for our convenience on every corner. Travellers’ cheques were for dinosaurs. It was news to me back then that South African ATM density and inter-connectivity was not world class – it was much better. After several painful rejections from ATM machines I began to fear that my cash card would be eaten by the machine, and that would be that. I would rather pop into a bank branch and draw on my credit card – no problem.
I soon learned that it didn’t work that way, and I was back out on the pavement, chastened. The visions of my parched, deprived children flowed into my brain. They would be even more parched if I was unable to pay for transport in Paris. Their little feet would have to walk for many kilometers. Vague thoughts of applying for a compassionate loan at the SA Embassy fleetingly crossed my mind.
I wracked my brains for long-lost friends who lived in Paris. Maybe a surprise visit, and a little loan? I couldn’t think of any. It started to dawn on me that in Paris, I was a nobody. We were staying at the cheapest hotel, where we had to slide under the basin carefully to sit on the toilet. There were very interesting looking stains on the ceiling and the suitcases took up all the space between the beds and the walls. References from the totally-French-speaking receptionist and manager were not going to impress anyone.
I went into one more bank that at least sported the same corporate colours as my own bank, hoping that there might be some cosmic link to my own branch back home. I flashed the teller a wad of various cards, and in desperation told her that I was actually world famous back home in SA. This drivel had the predictable effect, and I darted out of there only just before the bouncer was called.
I eventually solved my predicament with a flash of inspiration when I accidentally encountered a Thomas Cook and realised that they might be happy to give me some cash on a card. They were, but only after phoning my employer and bank in SA and charging me for the phone calls at unusual rates.
Those were the good old early nineties. It is a bit easier now.
This disconcerting instant reduction to abject poverty proved to be a huge wake up call for me. It got me thinking. How often do we not only take our own personal “PR” totally for granted, but slip into the illusion that any of it really matters? We build an image around ourselves and attach all sorts of arbitrary status to our own inventions and creations. In many instances we receive huge encouragement from the sidelines – gold cards from banks and gold cards from Voyager, all designed to enable us to impress our fellow humans, and of course, ourselves.
We use home addresses, branded key rings and employers’ job titles to establish some sort of mythical pecking order amongst the people around us. These symbols do after all entitle us to service in restaurants, to our personal space in the Woollies queues, instant turnaround at the garage when the car is serviced and countless other rights. We get so attached to this illusion that it becomes our reality, and we start to believe it.
Certain classes of people simply become invisible. Rubbish gets removed, petrol gets put into our cars, internal mail is delivered to our desks and many more mundane things, all invisibly. And then it all disappears. We retire, get sick, get divorced, get retrenched or go to France on holiday.
The bubble gets pricked and it hurts like hell.
How can this happen to me? Do you know who I am? I worked hard for everything I have.
The stress is huge, heart attacks and break-downs follow, families break up. Well, I think that it is best to start the divorce proceedings from the trappings and the PR straight away.
Wake up and see that it is all just a silly game that each of us makes up as we go along, with a few ground rules thrown in by advertisers and the salesmen of the toys. Play with the goodies by all means, but share them with the other kids in the playground like you were taught and put them back into the toy box every day.
The day you start to believe your own PR you are in deep s..t!