In America, one of my biggest hardships every Sunday is remembering that Chick-fil-A is closed. As devastating as this may sound to the average American, this is nothing in comparison to a Sunday in France, because in France, everything is closed. And when I say everything, I mean everything.

I’ve been learning this the hard way. It’s taken me some time for me to get used to the fact that literally nothing is open on a Sunday in this city. With an exception of a McDonalds, I have yet to find a single location that opens its doors for more than a few hours.

No offense to McDonald’s, but I feel disappointed that I have ended up there on a weekly basis, when I don’t even go that often in the states.

Although I do find the McDonald’s here to be quite impressive, with its high counter-top seating and tech-savvy credit card ordering machines that allow you to order your food via robot. I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy going there.

However, as intrigued as I was at first by the McCafe counter, I’m starting to grow weary of the familiar American-ness of it.  After all, I didn’t come to France for MacDonald’s…

So last Sunday morning

, I awoke with a terrible cold, running a fever and a little unable to breathe due to the fact that my nasal passages were blocked. Feeling like I had just been hit by a truck, I decided to venture out of my warm and cozy apartment to the Carrefour (a French grocery store chain) to buy some water and honey. All I wanted was a bottle of water to take the Advil that I so needed to take, and honey to put in my tea. Just two simple items. 

Unfortunately, upon my approaching of the Carrefour, I realized that it was closed. I admit that I could have turned around and walked back to my apartment, swallowed by pill with tap water and drank my tea without honey like a big girl, but I didn’t. 

Before I could process anything, I found myself in McDonald’s, sitting in a booth with my cheeseburger and fries, deciding whether or not I would purchase a cappuccino (These cappuccinos really are breaking my bank). 

As much as I’d like to admit that the McDonald’s in France can cure the common cold, it’s actually empty, processed and greasy just like everywhere else in the world. But it sure does taste like home…

So voila. Here I am in France, acting more American than ever.