- And you know what they call a... a... a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in Paris?
- They don't call it a Quarter Pounder with cheese?
- No man, they got the metric system. They wouldn't know what the f*** a Quarter Pounder is.
- Then what do they call it?
- They call it a Royale with cheese.
- A Royale with cheese. What do they call a Big Mac?
- Well, a Big Mac's a Big Mac, but they call it le Big-Mac.
- Le Big-Mac. Ha ha ha ha. What do they call a Whopper?
- I dunno, I didn't go into Burger King.
- Vincent and Jules, Pulp Fiction
These past several days have been great. I've been driving around western France with my dad, getting lost in all the round-points, involuntarily listening to Bono repetitively, visiting family friends, drinking wine, and mooching off of bad American fast food joints. But now, my time in France is about to come to a close. I arrive in Denver in just a little over 48 hours. Crazy.
I hope to conclude this blog with something more creative than this lame post upon my return home. It should be something to keep me occupied until I find a job. (On that note, know anyone who's hiring?)
And yes, I've had the McRoyale with Cheese. Several times.
Note Bono: When renting a car in Paris, be sure it has a working radio antenna. Or you will be stuck listening to the left-behind U2 CD over and over again to the point where you desire nothing else but to throw it out the window and set yourself on fire.
wɪtʃ,