McDonald's: A Source of Comfort

Wait, what? Did I just write that?

Yes.  Yes, I did.  The last time McDonald’s saved the day was on a rainy day in April 2006 when Alexandra and I ventured from Vienna to Bratislava.  It was actually the perfect day to be in the Slovak Republic visiting a castle.  The clouds were hovering over us, low enough to mar the view of the top of the castle and dark enough to inhibit our ability to see more than 50 meters (is that a lot or a little? I’m trying to learn the metric system) ahead.  The air was cold and moist (ahhh, sorry).  The castle was nearly empty, with a handful of paintings and armor on display and the rest of the rooms under construction.  The women employees had mastered the art of dumb staring every time we asked questions.  They followed us into each exhibition (the 2) quietly shuffling their feet, ensuring they could be heard and seen and serving as absolutely no source of communication or information. The dust whispered warnings to us every time our feet allowed for movement and brought it to life.  It pushed us to leave, reminding us of the impending doom should the organ mysteriously start playing itself and initiate a reenactment of Dracula.  Smart girls, we heeded its warning and went to McDonald’s for lunch.

I have a photo of us there that my Kodak Gallery swallowed.  Instead, here is a similar photo of the two of us in LA that is nearly identical to the one we took in Bratislava.  Instead of sunny canyons, just imagine a castle on a rainy day.  I promise you, they are super similar. And if I find the Bratislava photo (Alexandra, will you send it to me?) I will post it!

So, back to my story.  Since April 2006 McDonald’s has served as nothing more than a constant reminder of capitalism, franchise, obesity, mcflurry’s, and artificial food and flavoring.  This story has nothing to do with eating at McDonald’s so much as just being so excited to see that creepy, charitable clown smiling down at my panic stricken face.

It’s Saturday night and probably somewhere in the high 30’s or low 40’s.  I went out with Niels and the harem of women he was entertaining like a champ.  Not in the mood for tapas or drinking, I joined the dinner party for the company.  We have a long conversation about the benefits of getting an MBA and the fact that IE has just been named the #6 best business school in the world (woohoo!).  The 5 of us decide to go to an IE party at some Irish Pub.  We pile into 2 taxis and head towards Sol, where said bar is located.  Taxis in Madrid aren’t actually that expensive. They do, however, love just to chill behind garbage trucks and watch the meter go up.  So, 15 minutes later, we arrive in this major plaza characterized by tourists and Spaniards pullulating from one bar to another as they wait for the clubs to open. ‘Irish pub’ should have been the first tip that led us towards finding a different plan for the evening.  Like any typical Irish pub, this place is filled with swaying 20/30 some-odds holding pints of beer, wasted, and watching some form of game.  It isn’t long before I realize that we have just walked into an American frat party.  Every guy is wearing loosely fitted jeans, sneakers and their college t-shirt while every girl is kind of loud, aggressive and wearing far too much make up for a night out in their juicy velour pants and bedazzled wife beaters.  It becomes clear that, outside of the states, all Americans seem like the Jersey Shore crew.  Before I know it, someone is actually crouching down and starting to beat the floor and a girl is flashing her Britney as she does back flips.  Ha, just kidding. But can you imagine?

Thank god we were notified via text within 5 minutes of our arrival that the correct location for the bar was in Barrio Salamanca and not Sol. 

Another taxi ride later, we arrive at a similarly dingy Irish pub by the same name and populated by fellow masters students.  The first person I see is this guy who I happen to see everywhere around IE whom I’ve never officially met.  At least I know we’re at the right place. I proceed to not introduce myself (that would be too logical and friendly and why not maintain the awkward visual acknowledgement that we recognize each other but don’t know each other?!) and, instead, locate our friends only to find out that they are leaving and heading to the next place before going clubbing.  This is my cue to leave.  It’s 1:15 AM and I have to be up at 8:30 the following morning to go to the airport.  BUT, these people already think I’m the most anti-social individual so how will I break it to them that I have no faith this night will be more than a goose-chase for a good time and I’d rather quit while I’m ahead? The beauty of people thinking that you’re lame is that they expect nothing more from you. So, when you’re lame it’s expected and when you’re not it’s shocking and welcomed! As we stand outside waiting for the rest of the group, I say my goodbyes and sprint to the metro so I can catch the train before it closes.

I fly down the stairs to the metro, avoid the girl covering up her friend peeing in the corner (gross) and speed walk to my train.  I exhale a sigh of relief when I see the platform is packed with people. I make my way up the platform, swimming through the hum of Spanish chatter towards a less populated area.  The information screen advertises irrelevant info, naming the stops of the train without listing the amount of time before the expected arrival of the following train. The lulling sound of this mono-linguistic babel is suddenly broken by the nasal, shrilling sound of an American girl exclaiming “seriously, oh my god, that was just like so scary. Seriously. You know? Totally scary. Like what just happened?”  I quickly initiate the guessing game in my head. What could this girl look like? Where is she from? How old is she? I take a peek at her from the corner of my eye and realize, yes, I am a winner!  She is about 5’4 with long dark dark brown her she likes to pass as wavy but is actually straight and dirty.  She is wearing skinny jeans with musketeer black boots and a black top.  She might as well have a Louis Vuitton clutch. Her eye make up has made its way down her cheeks and remnants of her lip gloss are doing a better job of highlighting her nose than her actual lips. She does, however, have a really nice manicure and is definitely from Long Island.  “This train is totally never coming, is it? Ugh. We should take a taxi. Don’t you think? It’s like not coming at all, right?”  

…

“Do you think the train is coming? Or, like is this closed?”

Fuck.

She’s talking to me.

And then it happened.  My inner bitch found her way out again.

“umm, perdona, esque no hablo ingles.”

“Oh” she said. And walked away, grabbed her friend and went for a taxi.  The train came 2 minutes later.

What a relief! The train! Let’s not think about what you just did and let’s remember how great it will be to get home.  So, I take the train to Diego de Leon and then switch to the circular line to bring me to my home.  The cops are standing at the Diego de Leon stop and I ask them if I still have time to switch trains or if the metro is officially closing.  They said I should be fine if I run.

So, running is exactly what I did…for the next 45 minutes.  As everyone files off the train to the right, I go to the left, down a set of stairs and into a corridor.  The corridor leads me towards a sign that points me in the direction of my train. I follow the sign into another corridor and down another set of stairs. The following sign offers more hope, pointing in one direction for certain stops and in another direction for the other stops.  I go my way, down another hall, make another right, go down 3 more sets of stairs and finally arrive at my train platform…where absolutely no one else is standing.  Fuck.  Across the platform, however, there are definitely people. So, ok, maybe it’s ok.  The little info sign says that the train is 3 stops away so I might be ok.  The sign, however, is flashing.  Does that mean the train is stopped there?  Or, just passing through? Hmmm.  I wait. And ponder. And twiddle my thumbs.  And wait.  And look across the way.  And note that no one else has joined me on my side.  And wait. And acknowledge that 7 minutes have gone by. And no train.  And make the executive decision to book it out of there.  So, I leave the platform, sprint up the stairs and follow the signs to the exit.  These signs, however, are not in the same direction in which I came. Ok. It’s ok. Just keep going.  I run down the hallway, make a left, keep going down the hallway, run up the turned off escalator, three flights of stairs, then another 3 flights. I hear the shutting of the gates.  Fuck.  I make a left from the stairs, sprint down the hallway, approach another 2 flights of stairs, take them in twos and hear another gate closing.  I see the abandoned and resting turnstiles and hear another gate shutting. I run. Fuck. Fuck. I get to the turnstiles and they, of course, don’t move because they’ve been turned off.  Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Fuck it. I jump the turnstile sprint to the door and see the cleaning woman walking away.  I yell for her, plea that she please please open the gates for me. Rolling her eyes, she comes back down and lets me out.  I sprint up the stairs, thanking her profusely and just so adamant that I need to be above ground.  In my moment of panic, I recognize nothing.  After a deep breath, I notice the plaza and, like a beacon of hope, the McDonald’s pointing me in my direction home.  I begin the trek home.  As I pass the McDonald’s the homeless man asks me for money or for, at the very least a smile. Unable to do much of anything but email my friends, I christen him Ronald, thank him, and go home.

On another note, I’ve recently decided tea tastes better out of glass mugs rather than ceramic mugs.  It’s created a major shift in my daily routines.