McDo

My grandkids think that I am full of trivia—the type of trivia that does not really help you in any sensible situation. So, to keep my papa trivia reputation intact, here’s one for you: The French call McDonald’s “McDo.” I think that is primarily because it is difficult for a native French speaker to say the “nald” sound, but the French are, well, yes, we all know how the French are!

I didn’t know enough about speaking French in July 1976 even though we lived in France. Granted we arrived for French language study in late June 1976, so I had a good excuse.

Some new workers were arriving at Charles de Gaulle airport, and my assignment was to meet them and get them and all their baggage to the train station at the airport and accompany them to Tours where we were studying French. Easy enough assignment even though I only knew a few words in French. I decided to take Jason with me on the train to Paris to meet our new friends. We took an early train so that I could treat three-year old Jason to a meal at a new McDonald’s in downtown Paris.

We arrived at the McDo and immediately I knew I was no longer in Vicksburg, Mississippi as this McDo served wine. The building was narrow, so the serving counter was narrow, and there was no seating available on that level. A sign directed diners to a dining area on the upper level. I noticed that OSHA would not have approved the stairway as there was only one railing—that is only one single bar to hold onto at waist level for adults. I had food in my hands, and as we were mounting, I noticed that the steps were wet, so just as I was about to tell Jason to be careful and stay close to the wall, he slipped and fell from the stairway and plunged under the single handrail to the cement floor below.

At first, I was frozen with shock. I don’t remember what I did with the food and drinks, but I ran down the steep stairs to my son who was lying on the floor below. Jason started crying, and I was grateful that he was still alive. I asked for ice, but there was no ice at this McDo, as the French do not drink iced soft drinks.

Jason had fallen on his forehead, and he was clutching his face with both his hands while crying. I cradled him in my arms while sitting in a metal chair. In all the confusion, an ambulance showed up. They loaded Jason on a gurney, and I followed. I will never forget the sound of that ambulance as the sounds of European first responders’ vehicles are much different from the sirens of the USA.

After Jason was treated and x-rayed in the emergency room, a doctor who spoke English showed me the x-rays and said that Jason had a small skull fracture. They would need for him to stay in the hospital for observation in case there was swelling.

Jason was transported to a children’s ward. The hospital staff and I were using about a dozen French words and a lot of hand gestures to communicate. An aide came to Jason’s bed and started removing his clothes—including his underwear. As she started putting a disposable diaper on him, I told the aide in perfect English, “He does not need a diaper. He is potty trained.” That went past her ears, and she continued putting the diaper on Jason. I stood up next to her and tugged at the diaper telling her with my hands that he did not need it. She rattled off something that I did not understand, and finally she said something that I did understand. She said the word pee-pee. She meant that Jason would not know how to let them know when he wanted to urinate, so he had to wear a diaper.

Exasperated with this “conversation,” I yelled out, “Madam, pee-pee is the same in any language.” And I also yelled out in French, “La meme chose!” (the same thing).

The rest of the story—I was able to make a phone call from a telephone booth (yes, grandkids, there was such a thing!) to Cheryl to tell her what had happened and to get her to have someone meet the new workers and to get a fellow worker in Paris to come to the hospital to help me communicate better with the caregivers. Oh, and Jason’s head healed quickly.