My first meal in France was a Big Mac — and I’m glad it was
My arrival in France was chaotic, to say the least. The roller-coaster of emotions I experienced in the less than 4 hours that took me to get from CDG to my hotel room, has scarred me for life.
Allow me to illustrate.
I got lost at the airport, avoided a scam, failed to make myself understood by everyone I encountered (which, by the way, did wonders to my self-esteem after taking seven years worth of French lessons) and, to top it all, I had a full-on mental breakdown.
I also had a Big Mac. Well, half of it, anyway.
I see you, there, judging me through the screen.
Why would you make such a poor culinary choice in the country with arguably the best gastronomy in the world?
The short answer is we crave familiarity. As humans, we anchor ourselves in comfort zones, not necessarily because they are better but because we perceive them as less scary, and therefore, safe.
The long answer is I had to occupy my time for two hours before I was allowed to check in at the hotel I was staying. After a sleepless 12-hour flight from my previous home in Bogota, and all the stressful shenanigans I mentioned before, all I wanted was to relax, take a hot shower, and recharge. Unable to do that for at least two hours, I decided to take a walk and explore the area surrounding my hotel.
This was my first time traveling alone. I had been dreaming of going to France since I was 5 years old and started teaching myself the language with a “French for Dummies” book until my parents finally caved and paid for formal lessons. After years of wanting to go there, my university opened up a scholarship for students to go abroad to non-Spanish speaking countries, and I applied.
So there I was, in the middle of the Boulevard Voltaire, after 15 years of wanting to go to France. I was finally in Paris.
It was beautiful, everywhere I looked it seemed like a postcard or a Van Gogh painting. It was the beginning of January and, as a Colombian who had lived all of her life in the season-less equator, the snow and the French people in their stylish coats made up an astonishing view.
For about 5 minutes.
Then, it hit me. I was completely alone.
Everyone who knew me and cared about me was thousands of miles away, on a different continent. Both my phone and my laptop were dead. I had no way to tell them I had arrived safely, and no one else to talk to. The terrifying realization that I was completely alone came over me.
Cue the mental breakdown.
I felt fragile, defenseless, disconnected from the world around me. I would have given out all the money in my bank account just to have someone to talk to. What the hell was I doing there? Did I not have a pretty great life back in Bogotá? What had I left it for?
I seriously thought about running back to the airport and taking a plane back home. Had my phone been charged, I would have booked it.
When I finally stopped crying, after several minutes, I took a deep breath and nagged myself. I hadn’t wanted to do this my entire life just to back down now. Hell no! I was going to get my shit together. I just needed to get a new adapter for my chargers (apparently I had bought the wrong one back home) and find a place with reliable Wi-Fi to talk to my mom.
The McDonald’s in the corner turned out to be the nearest place where I would surely have Wi-Fi. And the fact that a “Big Mac” is called the same whether you’re in Bogota, Hong Kong or Paris, was incredibly comforting to a panicky 19-year-old me.
I struggled through the details (sur place ou à emporter? En menu?) but still managed to get my order right, to score a table near an electrical outlet and, more importantly, to calm myself down.
I am glad my first meal in Paris was a Big Mac, even if I couldn’t eat it whole because my body didn’t think it was lunchtime yet (#jetlag).
That first Big Mac helped me ground myself in the midst of a panic attack. It gave me a tiny glimpse of familiarity to grasp to in an overwhelmingly new environment. As different as this new country was, and however alone I felt, at least “McDo” was still the same.
I know this may sound likea weirdly over enthusiastic McDonald’s ad, but I promise you, it is not.
A friend of mine told me her first meal in Argentina (a country known for the high quality of its steaks and wines) was a Burger King sandwich. So perhaps there is an argument to be made in favor of multinational fast-food chains, if only for how their omnipresent familiarity helps us cope with new, otherwise terrifying experiences.
I spent a total of six months in France. I ate omelets, crêpes, steak tartare, escargots, and too many types of cheese and baguettes to count. The last thing I ate there was even a vanilla flan from LaDurée (way better than their overrated macaroons, btw). But that first Big Mac helped me get there.
It was like dipping your toe in the cold water before you dare to jump into the deep side of the pool. My culinary experience didn’t remain restricted to the comfort found in previously known foods, but it started there.
And I’m glad it did.
