McDo's

UPDATE:  The Onion knows what I'm talking about!

Thanksgiving has got to be one of my favorite days of the year. Pumpkin pie spice, cranberry sauce, and alcohol abound and there's no pressure to buy gifts for everyone. The major bummer about being in France is that I have to miss out on this holiday, because the French don't seem to know it exists. But I've already given up my Thanksgiving Day Parade, sweet potato casserole, and tarte de citrouille (tahr duh see-toh-eel: pumpkin pie). I'm not giving up on at least some sort of special meal with some other Americans here to celebrate food and American manslaughter. The problem is, how best to celebrate it? Pumpkin pie filling is unheard of, sweet potatoes are nowhere to be found, and no family in France is big enough to buy an entire turkey to roast.

Maybe the most appropriate way to celebrate my American heritage this year would be at McDo's (mak dohs: McDonalds), the one American cultural symbol that the French love to hate, and by “love” I mean “worship”. On any given day in Paris I pass by at least three McDo's, and they're always filled to capacity. It's a glowing symbol to Parisians and the French as a whole of what they think America stands for: guilty, salty, fatty pleasures that are bad for the skin and le coeur (luh coor: heart).

The menu at a French McDo's is a bit comical to say the least. Not only is there your typical McDo counter with your Filet-O-Fish and BicMac standard line-up, but there's also McDo Bistro – an elite branding of McDonald's that sells tarts, macaroons, watery milkshakes in flavors like pistachio and pear, and of course beer. Because what would American cuisine be without a nice cold one to wash all the grease down your throat with? Though I don't think I've ever seen alcohol in McDonald's in the States...I don't know what the hell's up with that. This just seems like a gloriously missed opportunity. Then again, I haven't been to American McDonald's in awhile. Someone get me up-to-date on this, please?

Sadly enough, I'm all too familiar with the McDo's menu because I've been taking advantage of their free wifi for the past month and a half. Braving long lines, enough fries to make my heart shriek in terror, and the all out embarrassing experience of actually having the cashiers recognize me, it's amazing just what I'll do to satisfy my Internet addiction. I even started to get mistaken for one of the many homeless alcoholics who use McDonald's for their “heures de bureau” (or du bwer-oh: office hours) to discuss conspiracy theories and gossip about their friends.

Believe me, the irony of being an American girl moving to Paris and then spending nearly everyday in McDonald's isn't lost on me. If I never walk into McDonald's again, it will be too soon. But I'm thankful for their free Internet and the fact that France's obsession with hamburgers means that there's always free Internet within walking distance in Paris. Even so, I think I'll be choosing a quaint French café over stereotypical American McDonald's food for my Thanksgiving meal this year, merci beaucoup.

Le jour d'action de grâce

After watching the French film of Coco Chanel's life on my computer, I noticed that midnight had crept it's ugly head toward my laptop clock, marking my first French jour d'action de grâce (joor d-ak-see-ohn duh grah-s: Thanksgiving).  The thought of spending the next morning cooking all day and teaching all night so that I could celebrate this American holiday without family, sweet potatoes, or pumpkin pie left me exhausted and slightly depressed, so instead of thinking anymore about it I decided to change into my pjs and climb into bed.

My hand poised over the light switch, a sudden frappe (fra-p: knock) on the door made my heart race and my body freeze.  Convincing myself that the loud knock was just the wind, I tried to ignore my confusion at someone possibly standing outside my bedroom at midnight.  I left my hand hovering over the light switch, debating whether or not I should go off to sleep without even checking to see if there was anyone there.  But mon coeur (mohn koor: my heart) wouldn't let me ignore le bruit (leh brew-eet: the noise).  There was definitely a knock, and I could feel a presence of someone - or something - on the other side of the threshold, waiting.

Turning the lock, I peeked around la porte (lah poor-t: the door), expecting to see no one there and for my fright to be all a mistake, as it's so often been with my old, loose French door on windy nights in the past.  In a split second my eyes scanned to hall, trying to adjust to the dark, only to see two eyes staring back at me.  Human eyes.  Male eyes.  Male eyes that belonged to someone who looked an awful lot like my boyfriend, Andrew.

And with a mouth forming words in a voice that sounded so much like Andrew's.

And with arms reaching out to hug me in a way so much like Andrew's.

"But wait" my mind told me, "Andrew is visiting his step-grandpa in Davis.  Andrew doesn't speak French.  There's no way Andrew could find his way around.  Andrew has to be at work on Monday.  Andrew is spending Thanksgiving with his family around their dinner table in California.  There's no way Andrew is standing at my bedroom door, in France, at midnight.  I've finally done it.  I've finally gone so crazy that now I can't even separate dreams from reality.  I'm a certifiable nutcase."

But my heart couldn't help but believe.  So I screamed.  I shouted Andrew's name over and over again, trying to wake myself up from this dream.  But I wouldn't wake up.  So I decided to hug Andrew, hoping his touch would wake me up.  But I just couldn't, for the life of me, wake up.

You know what?  It turns out I wasn't dreaming.  Mon Saint André (moh-n san-t ahn-dray: my Saint Andrew), who doesn't speak a word of French, who had never before flown overseas, who only had a weekend off from work, and who can never, ever succesfully keep surprises, managed to catch me completely by surprise by showing up at my bedroom door in The Middle of Nowhere, France so he could be with me for Thanksgiving.  True story.

And here I thought the most exciting thing about Thanksgiving this year would be the homemade cranberry sauce.