McDo
We returned from a trip to France this past weekend. A couple who are lifelong friends accompanied us. We had planned this trip for April 2020, and we all know what happened then.
Cheryl and I had lived in Tours, France and studied French for a year so many years ago that it seems like another lifetime. We enjoyed visiting in Tours in the middle of the Loire River valley where all the beautiful chateaus are. It was a walk down memory lane for us.
After visiting Mont St. Michel and Normandy, we spent a few days in a small hotel in Paris in the Latin Quarter a block and a half from the Seine. Right across the street from our hotel was a fine dining restaurant called McDonald’s.
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!
Seeing the McDonald’s each day and hearing the seeming constant blare of the distinctive siren of emergency vehicles in France made me think through the details of my first visit to a McDonald’s in France.
We arrived in France over 40 years ago to study French, and before we ever started our classes, some new workers were arriving at Charles de Gaulle airport. 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. 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 McDonald’s in downtown Paris.
We arrived at the McDo and immediately I knew I was no longer at our McDonald’s in Vicksburg, Mississippi as this McDo served wine. The building was very narrow, so the serving counter was tiny, 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 use ice in their 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, someone had called an ambulance, and it showed up. They loaded Jason on a gurney, and I followed. The ambulance sped through the streets—as much as it could in downtown Paris.
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. He said that Jason would have to stay overnight in the hospital for observation in case there was swelling.
Jason was transported to a children’s ward. The hospital staff and I were trying to communicate with about a dozen French words and a lot of hand gestures. 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 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 went past my ears, and finally she said something that I did understand. She said the word pee-pee. What I finally figured out was that she was trying to tell me 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 added in French, “La meme chose!” (the same thing). She got the message and finally let me put his underwear back on him.
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 arriving at the airport. I was also able to phone a colleague in Paris to come to the hospital to help me communicate better with the caregivers.
Oh, and Jason’s head healed quickly.
But I will forever think of that incident when I see a McDo in France.