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Published 2002
When I lived in Paris, I used to stroll in montmartre because it was pretty and convenient to my cramped little room. I’d head for the bustling summit— la Butte—with its views of the rest of Paris and its square filled with painters dabbing paint on faux-impressionist canvases to sell to the tourists. One night, two young Americans, probably college students, were walking behind me. As I eavesdropped, I gathered that they had been away from home for most of the summer. They talked longingly of what they really missed about home. It was the food, but not just any food. It was the Big Mac.
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