I’m so ashamed. I just went to McDonald’s. I haven’t been in probably about four years—my last recollection was stopping at one with Aim as we were driving home, hung-over, from some Babson reunion. I think I just got fries—I can’t even remember the last time I had anything else there.
But there is a McDonald’s right outside our office. And there aren’t many places in the neighborhood for snacks. The thought of a vanilla soft-serve crosses my mind from time to time, especially on a sunny day like today. And well, I finally gave in.
McDonald’s in Paris is a funny thing. Before you walk by the stank of the bathrooms to get to the counter way, way in the back, there’s a “McCafe” where they sell macarons, croissants and espresso. Classic. Only in Paris.
I had another only in Paris moment last night—I, um, also went to Starbucks. This was my first visit to a Starbucks in probably seven or eight months and the only reason I went is because we had a meeting for work—a Sunday evening meeting before the madness of this week began. Just like New York, Starbucks are everywhere in Paris and they’re a convenient and logical meeting place. Except this one had twenty-foot ceilings and crystal chandeliers. Probably faux-crystal, but still, it was funny to be sucking on a raspberry frappaccino in such grandeur.
But I am really not meant to eat at these places—once in awhile in the states, maybe, but never in Paris. For there I was, out on the Champs-Elysée, enjoying my McDonald’s ice cream, when something fell on me. Sure enough, a pigeon shat on me. A sign.
Mel? Alex? WTF? What is going on with me and the pigeons?