Natalie Bailey: McDonald’s 2.0.
I am not proud that I called McDonald’s at four o’clock in the morning. And much to everyone’s befuddlement, it wasn’t for my usual hot fudge sundae.
Please, first understand that though I have an acute aversion to television, country music, and fast food when in the United States, I am drawn to these beacons of American familiarity when I find myself far from home. Though I love sticky rice and bamboo salad with an undeniable passion, during my time in Bangkok, I occasionally delighted in forking over three dollars for a Happy Meal to appear at my doorstep. My pleasure derided from more than the soggy fries and plastic toy, it was the promise of avoiding the madness of the hot streets clogged with motorcycles and strange goods. For once I could “press 1 for English” and have limited miscommunication. To boot, it was like America improved—McDonalds 2.0—I had never experienced the distinct luxury of fast food delivery. Quite simply: I was lovin’ it.
The choice I made to move to Bangkok straight out of graduate school, following the great recession of 2008, was unthinkable to many, especially for those in my parents’ generation. But I represented a new American Dream that traded the stability of a house, car, and even couch, for one thing: adventure. Ironically, it was outside of the land of liberty that I felt free. From Bangkok I traveled far and wide; I built my savings; I became part of the global community.
Of course, living abroad is no longer what it was when the American Dream consisted of picket fences and 2.3 children. I had a cell phone that worked in the middle of nowhere, email at my constant disposal, Facebook, and video chat—the list goes on, and yet, acute culture shock and homesickness sideswiped me upon my arrival. I realized how brave travelers before me had been—going off into the great unknown, with no comforts to speak of, not even hamburgers. Nevertheless, being tens of thousands of miles away, I came to identify with my appreciation for the special, and simultaneously for the usual.
I knew I didn’t want to be an expatriate forever. I wanted to return to the U.S. an improved version of myself, enriching the fabric of the culture through my own reversed immigrant experience. My dream was to come back somebody new. After swinging between countries with rich histories, untrustworthy governments, and a relatively low regard for safety in the midst of several natural disasters, the sweetest words were those of a border control official at JFK who said, after flipping through the eighty pages of visas in my passport, “Welcome home.” But what I overheard in passing, a few days later, was similarly comforting thanks to that harrowing night on the other side of the world: “Would you like fries with that?” Why yes I would.
