Annabelly

McIndia Swollen with head cold and angry with myself for even considering this place an option, I push in the door. It seems to move on its own, and I follow, stumbling through gracelessly. I am immediately blasted with a cold air that smells like sugar, body odor, and grease. When I catch my balance, I find myself standing face-to-face with the McDonald's security guard whose sole job, it seems, is to open and close the door for visitors and perhaps, ward off the occasional Hamburgler. He isn't friendly and I don't waste my time uttering a pleasant "namaste," I am on a mission. I have been in Jaipur, India for a month and have come down with a vicious cold. My throat is raw and tears stream uncontrollably down my cheeks from my eyes, which are bulged like a bullfrog's. I feel like a force to be reckoned with. In my illogical state, I curse the heat, India, and life in general. I have rationalized however, that the only thing that will make me feel better is ice cream. But, in a country with un-potable water, searing temperatures, shoddy electricity, and a humid monsoon season, eating ice cream is a dangerous gamble. Figuring I couldn't possibly feel any worse, I decide to take my chances on a place that is popular, at the heart of an American-influenced shopping Mecca of Southern Jaipur, and known for its reliable refrigeration: McDonald's. I am not proud of this. Just the night before I sat outside this same McDonald's waiting for a ride, verbally attacking those without the self-control to resist one of America's most manipulative corporations. But, desperation causes craziness, and perhaps Indian McDonald's will be different. There may have been a line for the counter, I didn't notice. I push my way up to the front and read the menu hanging above the cashier; it is brilliantly lighted and plastered with photos that make the food look too-good-to-be true. Scanning, I find a photo of a chocolate-dipped, vanilla ice cream cone and spout, "one McSwirl please," at the cashier, who looks confused and almost scared. Amused, I remember that a blonde, fair-skinned 21-year old girl at the local McDonald's is probably an unusual sight. Waiting for him to come around, I notice that his stare is not the only one I am receiving. A lull has settled over the crowd of around fifty people, andas nearly every set of eyes moves to the counter of the restaurant where I stand. Ordinarily, this much attention makes me uncomfortable, but I am so fixated on the strange menu, instead I start to giggle. Soon, my giggle catches on, and my four companion join me. "Look, they have a Vegetarian Menu at McDonalds!" I point out, snorting. "Paneer Salsa Wrap? Veg Pizza McPuff?" I was feeling better all the time. I continue sardonically cracking jokes about "The Happy Price Menu," "The McCurry Pan Chicken Burger," and the thought of meat that costs less than a dollar. At fourteen, I swore I would never eat fast food again. Something about the preparation, the mass production, worker's rights, and Eric Schlosser's Fast Food Nation influenced my decision. Unfortunately, my fourteen-year-old self did not have the foresight to see that, one day, I would stand here in India, one month down and three to go, unreasonably frantic for American food of any kind, and actually wanting to try everything on McDonald's the menu. When my cashier is finally able to process my attention, I pass the man the 20 Rs (50 cents) that I owe and attempt to ask him how long he has worked at McDonalds. It is just a question. It appears as though working conditions at McDonalds India are superior to those of America and it certainly seems far superior to working as a cycle-rickshaw-man or the toilet cleaner at the Delhi airport. "I not sure, ma'am, I'll ask." He replied, looking as if we were going to be sick. He rushes back to a man that stands giving orders to the McVeg burger-fryer. They speak quickly in Hindi, bobbling their heads, and then rush back up to the front, the manager-type puffing up his chest and clearing his throat as he approaches. "Since 2001, ma'am. In this location since 2001." Confused, I thank him, grab my McSwirl, and find a table to take in my surroundings. Sitting in a huff, my friend Shawna tosses her camera into her bag, "So apparently you can't take pictures in McDonalds," she says sarcastically. Evidently, the Hamburgler-fighter had another job: to assure that no one "snapped a photo of the McDonald's menu." God forbid any curious American student attempt to steal the right to print a photo of the much-coveted McAloo Tikka Burger. As we sit, we look around the restaurant. The kitchen is immaculate, and ironically, the cleanest I have seen in India. I feel as though I am missing something as I realize there are neither mosquitoes nor flies around to vie for my food. Instead, workers buzz around the restaurant, asking how the food is, picking up trash, and smiling. Fit young men and women in bright saris replace the obese crowd I remember from my experiences in America's McDonald's. A sign to the left of the counter leaves me floored: "Our veg products are eggless and 100% vegetarian, see for yourself! Ask manager for a restaurant tour." Another sign also catches my eye. It shows cartoon characters called the "Dilli Pirates, and tempts with the slogan: "party like you never have before…" promising children a McDonald's birthday party to rival all others. Looking around, I notice a pole plastered in photographs of children, smiling, dancing, and eating away their birthdays on the McDonald's Party Bulletin Board. And, as I start to laugh at the photos and the thought of toddlers partying like they never have before, I notice that a section of the restaurant looks as if it has been the victim some kind of scientific shrinking experiment: miniature red chairs, greasy tables, plastic trays, and posters decorate the room. My glance stops, and I begin to contemplate who or what could possibly make use of such objects. Suddenly, my ears are filled with a repetitive, nasal voice crying, "jump in the air, jump in the air, jump, jump, jump in the air!" Before I realize what is happening, I see a girl of about six leap onto the center of a round munchkin table. She begins palpating her hips and thrusts her pelvis forward and back to the cheers of the adoring friends, who sit around the table watching. While I look horrified at this child-strip-show, I notice her smiling father turn on the video camera just in time to watch his six-year old feel her chest, hips and thighs, squat to the floor, and give her inner thighs a loud, "smack!" As the girl hopped off the table, I hope the spectacle will end. Instead, a hefty boy of about eight, wearing a button up shirt with racecars on it, jumps up and cruises to the center. The small table legs struggle under his weight, and he leans his head back, forms his hands into some kind of thug-like symbol, and also begins to thrust his hips. It is a dance something like the cross of inner-city gangster hip-hop and Bollywood sex idol hip-thrust. The crowd loves it. Horrified, I remember my own youth spent in the America's McDonald's Fun House. The Fun House may have been head-lice ridden and germ infested, but in contrast, throwing harmless plastic balls to play tag seemed like innocent childhood fun. Mistaking my expression for one of amusement instead of abhorrence, a friendly waiter came by and asked me to fill out a customer suggestion survey. Tearing my eyes away from the spectacle, I begin to read. It asks that I rate the restaurant on certain criterion. Was the service quick? My choices are between Ferrari and Anari, with varying degrees of smiling and frowning faces between extremes. How was food price? Not too much or, let's go Dutch? I begin to laugh again. Finishing our ice creams, we make our way toward the door. My belly coated in cold-healing soft-serve ice cream, a great new tune in my head, and visions of of the Dilli Pirates dancing in my head, I completely forgotten my cold. The security guard opens the door, frowning. I smile and offer him a friendly, "Shukriya! Namaste!" I deposit my trash in the only public trashcan I have ever seen in India and I make my way out the door. The air outside still feels like a blast furnace and not 100 feet out the door, I am attacked by a hoard of beggars who grab and pinch my arms and clothes. Suddenly, I remember my cold, my swollen eyes, and India. Screaming a pathetic "Nay, bus!" to the little boy that is grabbing at my purse. I made the mistake of offering them my chocolate a few days ago and they will never let me forget it...