That was how a drive to McDonald’s went terribly, horribly wrong. It was a hot midsummer’s night, and somehow a trip to McDonald’s turned into an adventure to another country. Jacob (my boyfriend) and I’s hunger had grown pernicious, and the only way to rectify this uncontrollable hunger was to embark on the five-minute drive to the nearest McDonald’s for burgers and fries. I was the driver, and the only possible excuse I can muster in this case is that my eyesight isn’t particularly excellent in the dark. I had both hands on the steering wheel, my eyes on the road ahead and my mind on the food that awaited me, when I made the fatally wrong left turn. As I cranked the wheel to what I thought was the correct street, I realized I was bolting down a one-way street — and I was not going the right way down it. Quickly, I swerved down another street that allowed vehicles to travel southbound. Unfortunately for me, this road had no exit as far as I could see — in fact, there was only one way out, and it was not the way I wanted to take. It was an anxiety-ridden moment. Full of panic, I looked over towards Jacob and asked him what we should do. Together, we searched to see if there was someone, anyone at all that could help and direct us to the right path. Albeit, there was no one around, and I cruised across the border that led from our homeland of Canada into the unknown and somewhat frightening territory of the United States. In hindsight, I could have handled that differently. Perhaps I should have took a deep breath and thought things through a little rather than acting on the first thing that came to mind. I drove and drove and drove and drove across that seemingly never-ending bridge alongside trucks and cars who were driving with a purpose, while I was there, driving encumbered with regret. Approaching the border patrol, I took a deep breath of relief. We were saved. We would be turned around back to Canada, we could go to McDonald’s, and we could forget this whole night ever happened. As I told the man what had happened, he looked quizzical. I understand — after all, I’m not entirely sure they have many crossers who simply were trying to go to McDonald’s. He said it would be more work to turn us around than let us through (even though we were not equipped with passports), so we were headed into Detroit, Michigan. I had never driven in the United States before, so to say I was unnerved would be undermining how I had felt in that moment. Hours after searching for the bridge (but not before arriving to the tunnel to discover it was closed due to maintenance) and driving back onto Canadian soil with a dead GPS and frazzled energies, Jacob and I were at the border customs yet again. This time, we were hassled by the border police, who asked us multiple times how one can end up in the United States when going to get a Big Mac. So multiple times I had to reply, that yes, I know — I’m an idiot. Eventually, we did get to McDonald’s. A greasy cheeseburger had never tasted so good and rewarding. This may be an odd and slightly humiliating story to recount, but it did teach me a valuable lesson — be careful when driving to McDonald’s, because you may end up in another country.