I speak neither Spanish nor Catalan, although I did find that I can read these with reasonable accuracy (as I did with Italian in Rome). This led to me feeling somewhat less that good about myself as I went about my holiday, for not even attempting the language of the day. But, what can one do?
Anyway, I was musing on how terrible this was in McDonalds, having just ordered but not yet received my meal, when my mind was suddenly put at ease. An English family arrived at my side, and started discussing what they were going to order. The father's voice was indistinguishable from that of Richard Sharpe, so I was forced to check that it was not, in fact, Sean Bean (and despite this, I still fully expected him to exclaim "bloody 'ell, Pat" and whip off some cunning disguise, but no).
And then they came to order, "I want three chips," said the father, waving three fingers under the nose of the assistant (who spoke perfect English, I should note), "and three beers."
Suddenly, I didn't feel so bad about not trying the language; at least I hadn't been too offensive.
Of course, I was also reminded of a time, long ago (June 1992), when some friends and I were refused service of beer in McDonalds in Austria, because their corporate policy was that they didn't serve alcohol to unaccompanied persons under the age of 21, despite the legal age for drinking in Austria being 16. That was the day before my sixteenth birthday, so I didn't feel too aggrieved, especially since we just went somewhere else.
But, ah, we were so young back then. So young, and so foolish. Not least because we thought McDonalds was a place to buy beer, as opposed to any pub in the whole town. I guess we hadn't quite realised that on the continent they don't worry about such things, taking a rather more sensible view of the consumption of alcohol. But I guess that's another rant.
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