I never thought that I would feel at home inside an Italian McDonald’s. Florence had done to me what I had just done to my cheeseburger: chewed me up, digested (making sure all the nutrients were properly absorbed), and shit me out. The previous day and night had been a rollercoaster ride of events. We arrived in Florence around noon only to have a walking tour of the city scheduled within the next hour. Already tired from the journey there, my group and I wandered the streets of Florence in its scorching heat. We traveled in time whilst walking through the streets. One street was medieval, the next was Roman, and the next was modern.
By the time the tour was done I found myself at the group dinner we had planned. The food was as authentic as you could have gotten and after a nice three hour dinner we began to make our way to an Italian club. You can imagine how that went (a lot of alcoholic drinks and dancing) and by the time I was out of the club and back in bed, there was only three hours of sleep possible for me.
The next day in the McDonalds (all before noon keep in mind), I was comforted by the gentle smell of fries that wafted through the air, a boat on a sea of fryer oil and salt making port in my nose. All around me were the voices of foreign tongues sipping on espressos and croissants (Italians really love their McCafés). And there I was, an American tourist eating a cheeseburger at eleven o’clock in the morning.
Even though it was a McDonald’s on the other side of the world, a little piece of home was in it somewhere. I searched hard for it. Maybe it was hiding in the design. Brown leather booths with matching stools. The yellow trim that traced every point that the wall and ceiling met. Workers in the same gray uniforms that I have grown so accustomed to back home. Or perhaps it was within the food. Grease dripping flavor after every bite. The sweet and static zap of an ice cold coke hitting my taste buds. Wherever it was it wanted to stay hidden. I continued to search for it throughout my meal.
I grew up hating tourists. Having grown up on Folly Beach, a spot where the tourists kept coming and they never stopped, I grew accustomed to their antics. Whether it was their absurd willingness to overpay at restaurants or to go to the most tourist locations, my family and I never ran out of ways to joke about them. We even started to call them “tourons” (a term created by me and my family used to describe a tourist who is a moron). There was one particular time where a vacationer from Ohio (oh I know, big surprise someone from Ohio made their way to South Carolina! Where did they get that idea?) honked at me for driving the correct way down a one way street. They were the ones driving the wrong way and even got out of their car to yell at me (I was in the left lane of the one way, so to him it seemed I was the idiot. He was shocked to find out that the situation was flipped). So to say the least, I had an idea of who and what a tourist is.
No matter who they were or where they were from, I never gave them the benefit of the doubt. Yet as I sat there (cheeseburger still very much in hand), I wondered if all these locals saw me in the same light. That I was just some crazy American who wanted the most unhealthy option for breakfast.
And after a quick moment to think, I came to the conclusion that I very much hope they did. The thought of giving them a story to tell their friends and family had made me overflow with delight. There I was, eating a cheeseburger as a hangover cure before eleven. And there they were, locals living their lives in the city that they know. I will walk out and have to use maps to guide my way. They will walk out and know the direction they need to go.
It wasn’t the design that made this particular Italian McDonald’s feel like home. It wasn’t the burger. It wasn’t the coke. It wasn’t the smell of the fries. What made it feel like home was the sense of a tourist in a strange land surrounded by locals who may (or may not) be judging them. I finished my burger and got up. It didn’t settle right with me but that didn’t matter. What did is that my hangover was cured (for the most part) and my hunger headache was slowly melting away. I then walked out the door and combined with the waves of tourists that wandered the Florentine streets.
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