Sierra and I waved down a taxi not far from the train station. ‘Bonjour!’ I chippered in French. I try to be chipper in languages I can barely speak. I think it makes up for barely speaking them.
‘McDonalds en Canet Plage’.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘Where?’
‘Ummm, McDonalds, un restaurant dans Canet Plage.’ I am also a firm believer in switching up the prepositions in languages I speak badly. Sometimes it helps.
He nodded, so apparently it did, and we drove for about 15 minutes through south of
I was mortified when it dawned on me what the taxi driver must have been thinking. Two American girls arrive at the train station and are so desperate for hideous processed food in a land that filled with epicurean delights they are willing to pay 30 euros to have a taxi drive them 15 minutes to a McDonalds in the middle of nowhere.
This all made me think more about McDonalds. I like to think that I avoid them like the plague whilst overseas but do I really? Last summer I had just arrived in
I’ve been in McDonalds in more cities than I care to imagine - Moscow, London, Delhi, Bangkok. I was just in one in