The constant, frantic dance of currency traders is never about the value of a dollar or a yen. It’s always about who gets to write the rules when the system inevitably stalls out.
One reads enough reports from the ports of Rotterdam, Singapore, and Hamburg to understand one thing about global commerce: nothing is free, and every transaction has a cost.
You watch these things—these grand, wooded mountain retreats like Camp David—and you realize that no amount of manicured lawn or historic gravitas can scrub away the fundamental rot.