Posts Tagged ‘McDonald’s’
I could talk for ages about the uniqueness and strength of Georgia’s culture (and I think I kind of already have), but now I think I’m finally making some connections about how it comes to be that way.
Georgia is really its own country, incredibly removed from the world. Look at its neighbors, to begin with. You’ve got Russia — border’s closed there. Turkey — people go there sometimes for the “cheap shopping.” Azerbaijan and Armenia? Open borders, but, like, why? Why would you go there when we’ve got such a beautiful country here? Mountains abound, you’ve got Tbilisi for the “big city,” and then Batumi for your beach vacations. Who needs to leave?
And the other side of that — who needs to come in? As you can see, we’ve got the golden arches, but only in Tbilisi and maybe two other cities. They import a lot of products, but they get harder and harder to find when you leave the bigger cities. I can walk into stores here in Gurjaani and not see a single brand I recognize. It’s an odd experience, mostly refreshing, sometimes frustrating. Because when you’re living as an expat, most of the time you want to be where you are, but sometimes you really don’t, and on those days, some Cheez-its and a McFlurry might go a long way.
I found myself thinking about this — how far away I really am — more this week when I went to send some documents back to the States. If it had just been a normal letter, I would have trusted the Georgian mail system, and the month that it would have taken wouldn’t have mattered. But this was important, so I had to find the FedEx equivalent — not actually FedEx, just the company that they contract with. When I tried to pay, they didn’t take a card, and I didn’t happen to have the lari, so I had to run across the street and up the hill to the hotel where I stayed for orientation to use their ATM. An international shipping company, with no credit card reader. Really? And yet, I’ve got no choice but to trust that yes, my envelope will arrive at its destination within 5-7 business days. Fantastic.
The old, traditional Georgian culture is probably such a part of every day life because not everything has been influenced by the outside world. And it’s not like they’re living in a Georgia-sized box; my students know the same music we do, everyone has Facebook, and quite a few of their TV shows are just Georgian varieties of the ones we know (if they’re not Spanish soap operas, of course). But the globalization that I’ve seen everywhere else I’ve gone? Nothing like it here.
We make jokes about Georgia all the time (hear about the granny who cut off internet to all of Armenia by digging up a fiber optic cable? Yeah, that really happened, just the other day), but of course I don’t want it to change. It will, I know it will. This country’s on the rise, that’s the reason I’m even here, because they want to gain more of a presence on the world stage by having their kids learn English better. But for now, you want a break from all that? Come to Georgia — no one’s complaining about globalization here.
Krakow is a lovely city. However, this post is not about Krakow. This post is about a desperate, dramatic, and ultimately unsuccessful attempt to escape from Krakow in time for an essay deadline.
10:53 AM Sunday, Krakow: My three friends and I realize that we are running late for the train back to the airport. We proceed to sprint through the shopping center that leads to the station, knocking old ladies mercilessly out of our way. If only we had known this was just the beginning.
12:30 PM Sunday, Krakow airport: I buy Bison Grass Vodka from the duty free shop, because it’s a Polish specialty, dirt cheap, and has my high school mascot on it. Go Bison!
1:05 PM Sunday, Krakow airport: Our flight is cancelled due to snow in Edinburgh. Ryanair announces that the next flight out of Krakow is not until Tuesday. I have an essay due Monday at noon. This could be a problem.
1:07 PM Sunday, Krakow airport: My friend Anna calls our friend Jonathan in Edinburgh, pleading with him to help us look up new flights. We will settle for anywhere within the United Kingdom. I convince myself I have always wanted to go to Liverpool or Manchester.
1:10 PM Sunday, Krakow airport: There are only two flights out of Krakow to the UK– Newcastle and London. The Newcastle flight only has $1,000 business class seats left. London it is!
1:15 PM Sunday, Krakow airport: Ryanair informs us we must exit the terminal and reenter, returning all of the duty free stuff we have purchased. No way am I giving this vodka up now. I successfully sneak it out.
3:30 PM Sunday, somewhere over Slovakia: We are on a flight to Vienna, Austria to connect on to London. I forget to turn my phone off and am reminded of this when it vibrates in my pocket with a message from T-Mobile exclaiming, “Welcome to Slovakia!” I apparently get good reception at 30,000 feet.
7:30 PM Sunday, Vienna airport: Flight to London delayed due to snow. We are cutting it close to make the last train from London to Edinburgh tonight.
9:30 PM Sunday, Vienna airport: After de-icing, we are finally off. We later learn we are one of the last planes to get out of Vienna due to the inclimate weather. The whole of Europe seems to be engulfed in a scene from The Day After Tomorrow. My palms are sweating as my essay deadline grows ever closer and our chances of making that last train slip away.
10:47 PM Sunday, London customs: Apparently, every time you leave the UK your visiting student visa expires. We have never run into this problem before, and have not brought our papers. We beg our way back into the country, and only after bribes and interrogations does the grumpy customs man grudgingly let us through.
11:06 PM Sunday, London airport: We have missed the train. Next one is at 5:06 AM. We find a 24/7 coffee shop to settle down in at Heathrow Airport for the night.
12:15 AM Monday, London airport: They turn the heat off.
12:47 AM Monday, London airport: I look at my watch. It’s only 12:47 AM, five minutes since I last checked the time.
1:15 AM Monday, London airport: I log onto the airport internet and write the conclusion to my paper. With my gloves on because it’s so cold.
3:07 AM Monday, London airport: Grumpy customs man decides to take his coffee break at the table next to us. We had told him we were staying at a Travel Lodge tonight, so duck behind our books praying he doesn’t see us and kick us out of the country.
4:30 AM Monday, London: After spending half an hour trying to hail a cab, we get a taxi driver who tells us it will take us 30 minutes to get to King’s Cross. Once again, we are cutting it close.
5:02 AM Monday, London King’s Cross: Apparently the train website was wrong, there is no 5:06 AM train. The next one to Edinburgh is at 6:15 AM. We buy tickets and stake out at the only place open this early… McDonald’s.
6:15 AM Monday, London King’s Cross: This train, if on time, will get me to Edinburgh at 11:08 AM. Enough time for me to run to the library, finish my bibliography, print, and hand it in.
6:16 AM Monday, London King’s Cross: The train is delayed; approximate arrival time is now 12:00PM. Perfect.
6:18-9:30 AM Monday, somewhere in England: I frantically call my parents and my friend Ben in order coordinate the emailing and handing in of my essay. I am consequently now forever indebted to them.
12:01 PM Monday, Edinburgh: Finally.
Lessons of this weekend: First, plan to arrive back in the country at least 24 hours before any imminent essay deadlines. Most importantly, bring your own shovel and salt whenever traveling to Britain in the winter.
I’ve discovered, over the past month and a half, that in order to embrace Egypt, or at least give up certain ideals I had about my four months here, I need to embrace Americana culture icons, and all the ways in which, for better or worse, they’ve filtered the rest of the world.
Granted, the American University in Cairo’s campus doesn’t exude a feeling of “the real Egypt” by any means. Actually, because the students here represent such a small percentage of Egypt’s income level, it is a terrible example of true Egyptian culture. The oasis that is AUC, and how I’ve developed a strong love-hate relationship with it will have to be another post entirely, but one aspect of Egyptian culture that it does reflect rather accurately is its fascination with America.
When I was in France almost four years ago, I became seriously frustrated with how hard it was to escape America and speaking English, even with natives. I assumed it was my fault for choosing a country whose natives are notoriously arrogant about foreigners speaking their tongue. Having heard that Egyptians are hospitable and kind, I hoped that Egypt would welcome me into its culture with open arms. Packing conservative clothing and scarves, I was hoping to be invisible and avoid my American heritage for four short months.
Well the Egyptian hospitality wasn’t what failed me. What I had totally miscalculated was the utter fascination for America, even in the Middle East. Call me naïve, but I assumed Egyptians would be as skeptical of an overwhelming adoration for American culture as I am. I discovered that fitting into Egyptian culture is to embrace literally everything I had grown to scorn about my own country: fast food, brand name clothing (especially the knock off versions), an appearance-based social hierarchy, English curse words giving no semantic meaning to an otherwise entirely Arabic conversation.
Most of those things don’t bother me too much because they don’t get in my way or affect me in my attempt to understand Egypt. The only thing that’s come to absolutely drive me crazy is the dependence on American food, particularly the fast food chains that pervade the country, as the best option for a well-balanced (?) meal. The options for dinner have come down to two choices: the Egyptian or the American variety. I prefer obviously the Egyptian meal- a falafel or fuul sandwich for about 2 pounds. But even if I get two, I find myself hungry in a few hours, and in search of something green to balance out the carbs or fried protein. Unless you build every meal off a collection of snacks from a grocery store (which I do often enough) like some cheese, fruit, peanut butter and crackers, or juice, you have only the American option left. Hmm… McDonalds, Subway, Hardee’s, Pizza Hut or KFC. Although I hadn’t eaten Pizza Hut in probably ten years, I think I’ve had it five times in the past month. The sad part is that I’ve even transformed my way of thinking about fast food- rather than being disgusted by the grease, calories or mysterious ingredients, I’ve begun to contemplate the two shreds of lettuce, a slice of tomato, and piece of cheese on the burger as well-rounded, with the McFlurry giving me an added source of calcium. The same goes for the vegetables on top of a pizza.
My giving in to fast food has gone one step further: that it might actually fulfill my goal to find the pockets of Egyptians. Both on and off campus, the American fast food joints are overrun with Egyptians, having a family meal in Tahrir Square or having a break with friends at school. Needless to say, the line at El Omda (the only Egyptian food place on campus) is almost entirely Americans. Both groups of people are trying to get a hold of what they can’t “at home,” but at one point do our traditions just flip over until we reject them from our own culture? Is that even possible, to swap food preferences like a badge at a Girl Scout camp?
Don’t get me wrong- I’m not a health freak by any means, and I’ve never taken any kind of impassioned rant against fast food (though maybe I would if I watched Super Size Me). I like to eat healthily for my own well being, even though my family often jokingly calls me Queen of Carbs because I could probably eat my entire weight’s worth of pasta and potato chips if they didn’t make me feel so sick afterwards. My shock about Egypt isn’t the presence of fast food nor is my dissatisfaction about having to eat it sparingly. I’m just getting sick of it often being the only or best option for a good meal. Is there no escaping Evanston’s BK fiasco??
Walking into the Marjam mall in Rabat is like taking a large step back into the U.S. You might think that this would be exciting, maybe even comforting, for a group of American students who just left the luxuries that America has to offer for three months in a developing country. In fact, it’s one of the few places in the city that you can buy alcohol, and possibly the only place you can get it during Ramadan. That seems like something that would probably appeal to six college-age men, right?
It didn’t. We actually couldn’t wait to get ourselves out.
The Marjam is basically the Moroccan version of Wal-Mart surrounded by upscale air-conditioned stores selling American clothes, toys, and jewelry. It is a 20 minute drive outside the center of the city, accessible only by car through a neighborhood that looks like it belongs in southern California. Moroccan men, women, and children filled up their shopping carts (thank God, not as big as the carts at Wal-Mart) with clothes and electronics and back-to-school notebooks and shrink-wrapped meat and frozen food and bottled water (lots of bottled water). Next-door at McDonald’s, parents ordered their children Happy Meals while sitting next to signs that read “Happy Ramadan.”
More disconcerting, however, than Muslim adults feeding their kids Big Macs during Islam’s most sacred month, was that the general skin tone of the Moroccans at the Marjam was noticeably lighter than what you see when you walk around Rabat’s old Medina. It seems that no matter where you go, lighter skin often comes with higher quality of life.
I say it was like taking a step back to the U.S. for a reason. Because, though Morocco may be number 130 on the UN’s Human Development Index, while America enjoys a spot much closer to the top, the Marjam represents all of the most disgusting things about America. It’s a reminder about all of our country’s vices—suburbia, consumerism, fast food, elitism—which we happily export across the ocean. I’ve only been here a week, but it seems to me that Morocco would be better off without them.
I’m standing on the Delhi metro, near the back door that doesn’t open or close. It’s lunchtime and we’re heading to Connaught Place, a hub in Delhi that’s known for its good hotels and restaurants. The train is packed with people, but Ashley and I are clearly the only foreigners on board. It’s humid and hot, probably more than 100 degrees in the sun. I look outside and watch the buildings pass, their colors seem a bit faded. I’m feeling nauseous, which makes me nervous, because last night I got sick several times on an overnight bus ride from Mcleod Ganj to Delhi. I turn to Ashley and say, “I think I need to cool it on public transportation.” I look back out the window. Everything is passing so quickly but it’s all blurry now, things are getting lost in the heat waves. My head starts pounding, I’m dizzy, lightheaded, I turn and say Ashley’s name softly, and suddenly, for just a moment, my world goes white. With eyes closed, I’m asking, “How many more stops?” My head is still spinning. “Two more,” I hear. “Do you need me to help you walk?” The train slows and I move onto the platform, looking for a place to sit. I feel weak, and then shocked, because Ashley tells me something I didn’t expect.
Apparently, my world had gone white for much longer than a moment.
I have no recollection of this, but I fainted this afternoon on the Delhi metro. When we got off the train, Ashley said my face had gone pale, and my lips had turned the color of my skin. I had fallen onto her body, and a bunch of Indian men had rushed over to help us. I’m not really sure how long I was out, or when I came back, or why I lost consciousness. Maybe I was just dehydrated and hungry. Maybe some lunch would help.
Thus began a rather epic quest through Delhi for food. Given our location, Connaught Place, we assumed we’d find a restaurant quickly, but we were very wrong. It was strange, because we expected to see loads of tourist, but we didn’t find any at all. Once again, we were the only ones who stuck out. We also didn’t see anywhere to eat, so we stopped to ask some people. Unfortunately, we only got one of three answers: “I don’t know,” “No restaurants,” or “McDonalds in the metro.” This was rather bad news for me, because I hate McDonalds with a fiery passion. When I was little I used to cry if my family went through the drive-through because I couldn’t stand the smell. To this day I despise ketchup, and the color combination of red and yellow makes me feel sick. But as the dizzy spells started coming back, I knew that desperate times called for very desperate measures.
“A McVeggie burger, please. Plain.” Munching on my burger in the crowded fast-food joint, I couldn’t help but smile a little at the situation. Ashley and I had been so excited for the food in Delhi, and we had trekked so far for lunch this afternoon, and here we were, sitting amidst red and yellow and lots of ketchup.
It’s funny how things turn out some times. Like everyone always warned us, nothing in India goes according to plan. Back at the hotel room, we learned that we hadn’t been to Connaught Place at all. The ticket cashier either misunderstood or lied, sending us on some wild goose chase through north Delhi for a few McDonalds burgers.
Still, as bad as it gets sometimes, things do get better. My color is back and I’m feeling stronger. Now that I’ve got some food in my system, I’m actually kind of amused by the whole situation. And anyways, I’ve got to make a name for myself somehow in this big chaotic city. So now one day when I’m old, gray, well-traveled and much wiser, I can look back and say, “Remember that time I fainted on the Delhi metro and ate at McDonalds?” I think it’ll be impossible for me to forget.
Dear Globalization,
You should be ashamed of yourself.
In a country of Latinos, practically every billboard model in Chile nowadays resembles the blonde-hair, blue-eyed look of Heidi Klum or Cameron Diaz. Waiting at the bus stop, I frequently see advertisements for McDonalds newest Latin American burger—the McFiesta (I can just picture McDonalds executives sitting around a boardroom coming up with this awful name). I can hardly walk a few blocks in downtown Santiago without happening upon a Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts, and I’ve learned to categorize people on the socioeconomic ladder based upon whether they are sporting a Northface jacket or a knockoff fleece. Was this what you had in mind when you shamelessly promoted free trade and integrated societies?
“Will the real Chilean culture please stand up?” I want to yell. Surely I should be experiencing more of a culture shock than this, considering Santiago is a further distance from Chicago than Moscow is. Yet the longer I’m here, the more I bear witness to your misguided effects and the introduction of American companies, from Nike to Victoria’s Secret, Ruby Tuesdays to Blockbuster. I can’t ride on the metro longer than 20 minutes without a Miley Cyrus or Beyonce music video playing on the inter-car TV screens. It’s not just American culture that’s taken root here, either – every other street corner houses a red and green Chinese restaurant, strung lanterns and all. Yet, as an American, it’s the way technology shapes Chileans perception of America that really irks me – from TV shows like “My Super Sweet 16” and “South Park” to websites like TMZ. It’s hard to know how to respond when my host sister asks me questions like, “Do most American teenagers get Hummers for their birthday?”
Now I’m not totally trying to bash your work, Globalization. I’m not naïve enough to think that international economic integration isn’t essential for combating poverty and allowing a country to move from developing into developed. It’s true – no nation has ever developed over the long term without increasing its global trade. Chile has become the wealthiest Latin American country only after implementing free trade agreements with powerful world economies such as the US, EU, and South Korea. However, with a soaring economy came soaring inequality. Wealth has been distributed largely among the small, upper class of Chileans, most of whom work in big business. Pinochet’s strategies of increasing exports disproportionally left out the poor, and today Chile has one of the highest Gini coefficients (measure of income inequality) in the world.
Furthermore, I wonder how much your drive towards rapid development and American economic interest has hurt Chile. There’s no denying that smog is a real problem in Santiago; at times, the Andes are practically invisible through the thick, gray blanket of air pollution. This problem began with rapid industrialization in the 70’s, and its increasing presence has mirrored the country’s economic growth and world trade for the last several decades. Also, I can’t help but wonder how sustainable Chile’s good fortune will be considering that the vast majority of its exports – copper, wood, fish – are nonrenewable resources (or threatened by viruses and overfishing, as is the case with salmon, the main fish export). The government currently subsidizes companies that are cutting down large amounts of trees for wood chips, and as a result, the industry is rapidly deforesting the nation.
The average Chilean, however, especially of the younger set, has embraced the cultural shifts that are occurring in the country, thanks to you. The vast majority of students, particularly those that attend wealthier schools, are required to study the English language through a governmental program called “English Opens Doors,” created in 2003 under former President Michelle Bachelet, which requires elementary and high school students to be able to pass a standardized listening and reading test. Just the other day, a little girl walked up to me on the street, tapped me on the thigh and, to the amusement of her mother, asked me “How are you and what is your name?” Many students study abroad in the US or Canada for a semester during high school. Every Wednesday, a celebration called “Miercoles Po” is held in honor of gringos visiting Chile. Americans can almost always get in for free and are rarely asked for their ID, while Chileans sometimes can’t get in at all. Tell a Chilean guy at a discotheque that you’re American, and you’ll be sure he’ll want to dance with you the rest of the night.
Chile has retained its distinct identity in certain ways despite your strong influence. There are still Mapuche communities, where the people dress in traditional garb and speak their native language. Both young and old people know how to dance the cueca, and they do so on national holidays. My host family took me to a folklore celebration one Saturday night, where a large part of the community gathered to celebrate traditional music, dance, and oratory. Still, I can’t help but wonder what the country would feel like had your glamorization of American culture not taken root here. Would I be more surprised by the customs and values I have encountered? Would I feel further from home?
All I ask of you, Globalization, is this: please use a little sound judgment and consideration before you start uprooting and entire nation’s way of life. I’m glad you want everyone to be friends and share resources and ideas, but stop disproportionally emphasizing the ideas of wealthier nations alone, and start recognizing that all cultures, traditions, and languages are interesting and relevant to the 21st century and the improvement of our world.
One more thing, please stop promoting this ridiculous rumor that Americans love mayo. It’s embarrassing! We actually all pretty much hate it.
Thanks,
Laura
I grew up in a nutrition-conscious household. We had one small cabinet dedicated to snack food, but Baked Lays chips were about as exciting as that got. The alluring world of oatmeal pies, Dunkaroos, and Hostess cakes existed only in the abundant pantries of the neighbors’ kids. At my house we ate wheat bread, plain yogurt, and topped our ice cream with melon balls. Needless to say, fast food wasn’t on the menu. Now that I’m off to college, I have access to any kind of food I want – but the habits instilled by my smoothie-making, bran-muffin-baking mother have, for the most part, stuck with me. At the very least, it’s safe to say I won’t be spotted at McDonald’s.
However, the other afternoon, fate acquainted me with America’s most popular fast food franchise for the first time since Salad Shakers were kicked off the menu. I was at my friend Eva’s house and two other friends, Paco and Jesús, had gone out to pick up lunch. I assumed they would come back with something Spanish, like Iberian ham, or at least standard, like deli sandwiches. But instead what they brought was McDonald’s.
At first I was surprised – they actually chose to buy McDonald’s? Then for a split second I was concerned – I have to eat it? And then I put on my game face – people all over the world consume this stuff and they’re doing okay. With that, I dug in.
Not only was it actually quite tasty, the meal that followed was the happiest meal I’ve shared in Sevilla. The four of us gathered around the kitchen table and spent as much time talking as we did eating. We laughed and laughed and sat back in our chairs.
Paco is the quintessential, free-spirited goofball. He joked and made silly comments. The glimmer in his eye alerted me when he was teasing, and the laughter to follow seemed even more gratifying with the added sweetness of understanding. And when the quips went over my head, Jesús would explain them to me slowly and clearly, his patience a comfort. When the boys were being totally ridiculous, Eva would give a quick wink or a smile from across the table. “Ignore them,” she said with her eyes.
They taught me Spanish slang and asked me about my thoughts on Obama and foreign policy as if I spoke for the entire nation. I taught them about the sport of lacrosse – they’d never heard of it. We you-tubed each others’ favorite musicians and found our homes on Google World. Questions and curiosities whirled around over the pile of fries at the center of the table.
So I learned to take my nose out of the air. The value of a meal can best be measured by the communion shared over it. At home it happens over grilled chicken breast, free-range, certified 100% organic. Here it happened over breaded nuggets. The food may be different, but if human connection is the goal, either suffices. Pass the fries, please.
Great article!
