It was true! The bank had imposed a monthly limit for cash machines. Transaction limits or daily limits for security reasons I could understand, but never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined a monthly limit. Why should they care? What business was it of theirs? How could they have set this limit without asking or even bothering to tell me? When was I supposed to have stumbled onto this crucial fact? But of course. When I was broke and desperate. 

To avoid the imminent crisis, I asked the teller to increase my limit to a higher amount. Very reluctantly, he consented. 

A couple days later, the money machine ate my bankcard. The crisis I had made a special trip to prevent became a reality. I had no money. After I stopped swearing at the machine, I knew the honeymoon was over. My Swiss bank account was causing more trouble than it was worth. A deep resentment set in. 

Bright and early Monday morning, I called the bank. Naturally, they could not discuss this matter over the phone because how did they know I was me? More time off work so I could make yet another trip to the bank. This was beyond ridiculous.

When I got there, the teller said that I would be getting a different kind of bankcard in a couple weeks. The bank had decided to withdraw my PIN privileges. 

“But, but why?” I sputtered. 

He said the bank had been informed (that didn’t sound good) that my work permit allowed me to work in Switzerland for only 120 days a year. When I didn’t respond to that totally irrelevant fact, he went on to point out that 120 days was not every day of the year. Like I didn’t know how many days were in a year? 

Before I could say, “So what?” He told me that I didn’t need a PIN. He said that since I didn’t work everyday, I had plenty of time to go into the bank to get money. 

I was positively speechless. What he was telling me was so bizarre that it could not actually be a bank policy. Rather, it seemed that he was giving me his personal views on the subject and somehow he had the authority to impose them on me. 

Just as I opened my mouth to start blasting about how preposterous it all was, it occurred to me that admitting to working everyday would jeopardize my residency status. There was nothing I could say without hurting myself. And it hurt me a lot to have to say nothing. When I glanced back while I was stomping out, I saw him give a little self-satisfied smirk. Around that time I began to truly detest my Swiss bank account.

Fortunately, that work permit was about to expire and I made it a point that the next one would restore my banking privileges. Up to that point in my life I had never considered a Personal Identification Number to be a privilege. Eventually, I was back in the good graces of the bank and had access to money machines again. Life was good. At that stage, I thought my Swiss bank account was good for a laugh. It was a source of amusement. I took that as a form of acceptance.

Trouble ahead. I was going to Russia on vacation and I needed to make sure I had access to adequate funds. Especially if a once-in-a-lifetime extravagance caught my eye. There was no way around it, I had to go back to the bank and ask that my withdrawal limit be removed altogether.

Why-oh-why did I keep getting the same teller? How is it statistically possible that of all the tellers in the bank, whenever my turn came, he was always the next one available? 

Frowning, he said, “The limit removed? Oh, that is a problem.” 

With pursed lips, he said that if the monthly withdrawal limit was removed, I would not be able to withdraw funds at any money machine on the planet. Ye Gods! That was the nightmare I had just gotten rid of recently when my PIN privileges were restored. I couldn’t go back to living without money machines. It was unthinkable. 

In total disbelief I said, “This is my money, right? I mean, it is not the bank’s money, that is, unless of course I have made some sort of mistake here?” 

He begrudgingly acknowledged that it was my money. 

Thinking I now had the advantage, I pressed on with what I thought was a valid point. Pointing to his computer I said, “And there’s plenty of money in that account, right?” 

That was not the strongest argument I could have made to a Swiss bank teller who probably sees billions on a regular basis. Ever the model of discretion, he merely sniffed. 

I was out of arguments. That was it. End of the line. The very least he could do was explain the reason behind this outrageous situation. When I asked why I could not have as much of my own money as I wanted, he replied, “this is not America.” 

On that point we could agree. I was absolutely certain that I was standing in a bank in Zurich, Switzerland, and not, shall we say, in Olathe, Kansas. 

What I wanted to say was “You mean this isn’t America? And all this time I thought I was in the USA. Are you absolutely sure about this?” 

What I did say was, “OK, how about raising the limit?” 

Up shot his bushy gray eyebrows and he said, “Your monthly limit is enough for you.” 

My eyes bugged out and I nearly choked at the absurdity of him telling me how much of my own money was enough. I couldn’t believe he could do this to me. Definitely, I was in the denial stage, which was a big step backwards from the acceptance stage I had already reached. 

Biting my bottom lip to keep it from quivering, I whimpered in someone else’s little voice, “But I’m going on vacation.” I assumed he would understand this meant spending more money than usual. But no, he was adamant, and in a no-nonsense voice commanded, “Your limit is enough for a vacation.” 

How do you argue with such ludicrous nonsense without making a public spectacle of yourself? Without going red in the face and jumping up and down shrieking? Using the opposite approach, I whimpered, “But I may want to buy a fur coat.” Even as I said it, I knew just how pathetic it sounded. How could it have come to this? From being so thrilled to have a Swiss bank account, to begging to let me have my own money. 

Unmoved, he just stared at me without saying a single word. Clearly, our business was finished. I was dismissed. 

In a last ditch effort I leaned forward to his caged window, grasped the bars with both hands, and with tears of frustration in my eyes whispered, “Please sir, may I have another thousand?” 

He gave a great sigh and then picked up the phone. Either he was granting mercy or calling security. When I heard the words “another thousand” I knew I had worn him down. He was not the only one - I was physically exhausted and emotionally drained. I needed to go home to lie down. As I turned to leave he got in the last word: 

“Don’t bother to come back again – this is the last time your limit will ever be raised.” 

I won’t. I give up. Now I understand why the Swiss have such a high rate of personal savings and such a low rate of debt – they can’t get their money out of the bank to buy anything. 

And with that, the new ex-pat slumped back in his chair. Grimly, I assured him it was all true; how on earth could I make something like that up? At least he would know what he was facing, which had to make it easier than what I went through. These are the kind of details you usually can’t get in the cultural preparedness books. You need someone who has first hand experience and is willing to share the information. 

Since those stormy early days, I have worked out my issues with my Swiss bank account. Like many mature relationships, I am not as ecstatic as I was in the beginning. The relationship only became compatible once I understood and accepted the limit to which my Swiss bank account was willing to go.

To Read Bonnie's previous article on living in Switzerland Click Here If you would like to contact Bonnie Burns write to the following: bonnieglobal@yahoo.com