One Friday a couple weekends back, we had just arrived home from a long day of work. I was on the phone with my dad when Max suddenly burst into the dining room:
I’m on vacation next week! Let’s go to the beach this weekend! We can pack our bags and leave right now!
But Max, isn’t your friend’s birthday party this weekend?
Whatever, I don’t even want to go!
Didn’t you promise our neighbor we’d help her build a shed?
*Cough cough* Something came up, I’ll help her next week!
What are we going to do with the dog?
He can stay with my parents!
Where are we even going? Can we talk about this once I’m done with this phone call?
I just found a hotel! My parents will watch Jojo! Hotel booked! I just packed your toothbrush let’s GO!
So that’s how we found ourselves driving to St. Nazaire on a Friday night. We checked into the hotel around 9 pm, briefly conferred with the overly enthusiastic man at the front desk, and strolled into town to find some food. The city seemed pleasant enough, clearly a destination for tourism and shopping. But as we strolled through street after street of closed and deserted businesses, it became clear that finding dinner would be a challenge. Even the beach offered no dining options. Clearly, St. Nazaire was the worst city ever.
In the end, tired and grumpy from hunger, we made our way to the only remaining option : Quick (French Burger King) in a shopping plaza just outside town.