An Average Day: Part 7 of 8

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A fictional day comprised from parts of many non-fictional days while I was backpacking in Europe

Golden arches appear as I round a corner. Although I don’t eat the food at McDonalds, I can’t deny there is something warm and comforting about the place. Somehow it reminds of home. There is a comfort in knowing my expectations could be full filled. I realize that at a very young age a piece of me was taken hostage by their marketing, just like it was by Coke and countless others. I ponder my love and my loath for the manipulative power of marketing as I pass a smiling statue of Ronald and enter in search of a toilet.

There is a line and a short woman is taking payment. I wait with my cards, shuffling and spreading them at my waist as we patient men inch our way forward. I place thirty cents into the small plate on her small table and she raises her arm as if welcoming be aboard.

Washing my hands I look up in the mirror at myself. I don’t look in the mirror that often these days. My face seems strange. I think about how it’s the same face that the waitress saw, the old woman and the kid on the train saw, all the people on the stairs and in the crowd and the man who I passed in the crowd saw. I inspect the faces I had made for them all and think about how I might of reacted. I try to see a salesman or investor, but can’t. I try to see some world traveler or writer or photographer, but can’t. It just looks like me, then a stranger and then me again. Mirrors often throw me into a state of existential angst. Noticing an onset of this, with the line of other men that exists outside the door, I snap back and disembark, thanking the small woman with an outstretched arm.

I’m hungry again. Something cheap and quick tickles my fancy. I spot a small Turkish kebab shop. In the front window is a thick cylindrical slab of golden meat staked through a vertical rod and rotating slowly. A man dressed in white shaves pieces off with a tool that looks like a large dermal. I watch the chicken fall and think about the texture of it in my teeth. I wonder at how such thoughts makes my stomach turn now. It seems so bizarre since not long ago I ate kebab with so much delight. I ponder the fact that emotions are why I’ve stopped eating meat and how before all my decisions were proceeded by logic. Excited by such change, I order a falafel wrap, then eat carefully while walking. The sun has now set and I’ve lost all sense of direction.

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