Ghana is one of the few places on earth where you can’t find a McDonalds, or so I thought.

The missionaries at the bus station clued us in, and Maggie’s dad, being the mission president of Cape Coast, helped make it happen. Here is how it works. You call up Kwame, tell him how many people are coming and about when you’ll be there, and he will go open up shop. This Kwame McDonalds had a lopsided pool table, orange soda, and pile of excessive napkins with every plate of fries and a burger, both as appealing as the model food they use in commercials. I bit and chewed it slowly, allowing the ketchup to run freely down my wrist, and if I closed my eyes tight enough, the blinking Christmas lights changed to the Wendy’s pick up sign, where a chunky, chocolate chip cookie dough vanilla frosty would be waiting for me, so sweet and grainy and cold.

After such a nice stay at the mission home, coming back to Wiamoase was a bit of a shock. Not just because of the 100 plus ant corpses that decided to take their last breath in my bed (7 dustpans full just on the floor), or the 4 AM’s free of disoriented rooster squawks, but I have come to find that I miss my hot showers. And yes. Hamburgers. Thick, cheesy, juicy hamburgers, soaked in a generous saturation of mustard and grease to compliment a pound of salty, value meal French fries (total 4.39 after tax). But for now I can content myself with bread. Yes. Bread with a healthy layer of off brand nutella or some derivative of peanut butter.

(Does anyone know if there is a Wendy’s in London?)

Gipsy