When traveling the world, it is inevitable that Americans will encounter remnants of our popular culture. Last year, while backpacking through Thailand, I was amazed when I heard Britney Spears playing in grocery stores and I was shocked when I saw Nike T-shirts on every teenager. Even in the remote back roads, Pepsi and Coca-Cola lined the shelves of food stands and markets.

Now that I have more traveling experience under my belt, I like to indulge in these little cultural influences whenever I begin to miss home. And, though I am embarrassed to admit this, my ultimate indulgence is McDonald’s. McDonald’s is the ultimate cultural imperialist. Its fingers reach every continent, with the exception of Antarctica. Although I am sure it will make there soon.

But what’s more is that every country interprets McDonald’s differently. In Thailand, neon green burgers and Thai food are added to the traditional menu. In France, stockbrokers in Armani suits sit down with a Big Mac on the Champs d’Elysees. In Spain, McDonald’s looks like trendy nightclubs with dark, foreboding interiors. I soon found myself asking, “What would McDonald’s be like in Italy?”

And so I went to find out. While taking a brief weekend vacation in the Italian Riviera, I found a nearby McDonald’s and went in. The inside looked more like a ritzy café than a fast food joint. The thick tables were low. The chairs were circular cushions. Everything was dark brown or stark white, giving the place a modern look. Large posters of extremely fit and skinny people skydiving or bicycling adorned the walls. None of them were holding McDonald’s bags.

The interior of the McDonald's in La Spezia.

I walked up to the counter and scanned the menu. Along with the usual items, a chicken sandwich with ciabatta bread and small fried cheese appetizers added an Italian twist to the regular meals drenched in saturated and trans fats.

“A Big Mac and a chocolate milkshake, please,” I told the girl behind the counter.

Her face was blank. Her fingers stayed in her pockets. So I tried again.

“Big Mac?” Her face nodded as she punched the buttons on the register. “Milkshake?” She shrugged—a gesture I’ve encountered many times when in foreign countries.

“Milkshake?” I repeated and pointed to the picture on the menu. In times like these, I am most thankful for charades and photographs.

“Oh Meeelkshake!” She replied. I nodded, not really understanding the difference in pronunciation, paid and took my tray in relief.

I sat down next to the poster of a man running through a wheat field with his arms flung up in air, because I liked that he was so happy to be in a wheat field in the first place. Although I am not sure what that had to do with eating Big Macs. As I ate my meal, each bite took me back to home, and yet each bite was still remarkably different from home. It might seem silly, but McDonald’s reminded me that, no matter how far I am from my birthplace, I can still find its memory lurking around street corners and down boulevards. It is always waiting for me to rediscover it, in any city of the world. And it never leaves me.