At Charles de Gaulle Airport last week, I was waiting in line at the overweight-baggage payment line with a fellow American. The executive was returning home to upstate New York after a week in France for a business conference at "some chateau about an hour west of Paris."
I asked how he liked his time in France.
"Well, I'm looking forward to going home," quoth he. "I mean, the French people were very nice and all, but I have to say I really don't like the food."
Wow. I've heard all kinds of Americans' objections to travelling in France, but that was a first.
"Yeah," he continued, "one night it was duck something, then one night they served me bone marrow."
"Oh, moelle!!" I squealed. "I love it!"
He looked at me as if I were some sort of modern-day cannibal.
"Then I think they caught on to the fact that I don't like all that weird stuff, so they stopped telling me what they were serving -- dishes like rabbit or black meatballs."
"I guess that's the trick," I suggested. "Just don't think too hard about what you're eating -- just see if you like it."
"Well," he said, "maybe some folks like French cuisine, but I just can't wait to get home -- when this plane lands I'm heading straight to Chick-fil-A."
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