SAN DIEGO — Why is it, sometimes, that the same item is called one thing in one place and another name somewhere else? What we Yanks call a cigarette, or cig, the Brits call smokes, a fag, or faggot. What we call underpants, they call knickers. Every vacuum cleaner to them is a Hoover. They’ve given up the nomenclature and call the actual function, “hoovering.” There is an ocean to separate us and make the distinction. Here we have supper versus dinner, and a grinder sandwich, is a hoagie, is a hero. Rain boots are galoshes, Gyros sandwich is a Schwarma. All this “localism” got me to thinking. When I was a kid growing up in New York, my all-knowing Uncle Dave told me, “New Yorkers think wherever they go when they leave the city they’re just camping out.”
I learned early on, in some instances it has more to do with time, distance and cultural development. An example; Four days into my honeymoon, I had to leave wedded bliss, board an airplane and fly from New York to Chicago, a stopwatch in my pocket. My job was to time how long it took to empty the toilets on a Boeing 707 airplane. It was the dawn of the jet age in commercial aviation and my employer American Airlines needed information about every function of that plane. I was in charge of dumping.
When I left New York, I was secure in the knowledge, that a four-to-six inch round piece of pastry with an egg wash crust and a dollop of fruit preserve, or sweetened whipped cheese in the center, was a “Danish pastry.” New Yorkers call it “Danish” for short. No need for any other description. There’s a surefire way for the busy counterman at one of those delicious smelling breakfast places everywhere in the city to know you’re an out of town yokel. If you ask for a “cherry Danish pastry,” a smile reserved for the newborn will flash across the overworked furrowed brow of the dictator taking your order.
In Chicago, I was bedded down at the very swank Palmer House Hotel, courtesy of American Airlines. The next morning I sat down for breakfast in the hotel restaurant and I perused the menu looking for a “Danish.” Nothing on the bill of fare suggested it was served in this establishment. Was Uncle Dave right? Was I camping out? Reviewing the menu selections, everything looked familiar except “Sweet roll.” I asked the waitress. “Why would anyone want a bread roll traditionally cut in half and buttered generously on each side to be sweet?” Shrewdly mindful of her tip, she sweetly answered, “Why sir, a sweet roll is a five inch round pastry with a dollop of fruit jelly in the middle.” There was a faint smile on her lips as she purred, but her amused eyes gave her away as she tutored me.
Did she know I was a newlywed as well as from out of town? The nice thing about being exposed, is that you only have to be embarrassed once. Having gone through that experience now gave me dual citizenship. When in Chicago forever more I would order a “sweet roll,” in New York a “Danish.” I now considered myself a hip world traveler.
Stopwatch in hand, I timed all the dumps in sight for four days. When my assignment was complete, I was airborne again, hurrying back to the passions and joys of my beautiful bride. I nestled down in the window seat, and amid the thoughts of pleasures to come, looked down far below at the changing landscape where farmland fields and hills were cut by meandering rivers. I saw vehicles rushing about like Tonka Toys on black-ribboned roads. Small towns and villages lay nestled in trees bursting with the first buds of spring. As my eyes harvested this splendor, I reminisced about the most meaningful experience of the trip. I looked down in vain for a line far below between Chicago and New York where a Sweet roll became a Danish.
Years passed and my thoughts and energy were diverted into career, children, midlife crisis, and save the Condor. An unforeseen event occurred that brought me back to those long-forgotten days. I have a home in a water-canal community, Coronado Cays, on a spit of beach land, five miles south of the town of Coronado, California. Our development was once a pig farm, and then the city sanitation disposal site. For years we had a monthly round robin tennis match, where men and women, partnered together as a team, plaedy 42 games against their opponents. By tradition, women serve first at the beginning of the set with the sun at their backs. Late in the afternoon as the sun drifted lower in the sky, left-handed men had to serve, with difficulty, directly into the sun. The lefties wanted to change the rules so it was the option of the serving team whether a woman or man served first. At the potluck dinner held in our clubhouse the evening after the day of tennis, the matter of who serves first was brought up for discussion and a vote. The moderator of our group was John DeBarr, a retired Marine Corps Brigadier General, with impressive credentials. He had been the Staff Judge Advocate General to the Commandant of the Marine Corps. One of his assignments, shortly after the formation of the troubled State of Israel, was moderator for the U.N between Israel and the Palestinians. He also held several important positions in the National Bar Association. When our tennis group has a problem, we don’t mess around, we call in high authority. If the General was out of town, I’m sure the Chief Justice of the U.S.Supreme Court would have been considered an acceptable substitute.
The discussion started reasonably enough, but soon differences of opinion emerged. Passions were inflamed, fervent opinions shrilly shouted, neck veins bulged and faces aided by free flowing wine turned cherry red. I never knew until that night there was a left wing and right wing of tennis. Friend was pitted against friend, progressive against reactionary. In the eleven years I had been a part of the group, I never heard such comments. It was getting out of hand, and we had no sergeant at arms. Finally, the general, sensing the debate had gone far enough, called for a vote. Hands shot up on both sides while glares burned deep into former friends’ eyes. The votes were tallied, the suspense becoming unbearable, with each yea or nay having an effect like branding a newborn calf. The results were counted, and a hush of anticipation blanketed the anxious throng.
The stunning announcement-A tie! The only one who did not vote was the general who counted the votes. Everyone looked to him with great anticipation, for he would cast the tiebreaker. With, an impeccably timed pause, and a thoughtful gaze around the room that looked into every voter’s eyes as if he shared their thoughts and feelings, he announced, “I abstain.” The existing rule stayed intact.
While all this was going on, just four miles up the road in town, at another tennis facility, the Glorietta courts, another tennis group had a monthly round robin similar to our group. These players allowed for either the man or woman to serve first, at the serving teams option. They were quite content with this arrangement, which had been the rule for years. When you examine the demographics of each group of players, they are quite similar. Lots of retired naval war heroes tried and tested in the defense of the nation. Smart, beautiful, well-coiffed self-assured women, and hard working men, making outrageous mortgage payments.
Almost every day I travel that narrow drive from my home into town. It’s a unique drive, with the beautiful blue Pacific Ocean on my left, and majestic San Diego Bay on the right. It’s a lovely ride with the sea gulls and pelicans floating lazily in the sky, and the busy Snowy Plover and Egrets gathering twigs and shells for their nests in the sand. Each time I make that trip I keep a sharp eye peeled on the road for that line, which I still can’t find, where on one side women must serve first, and the other side it’s server’s choice. I also wonder on which side of the line you order “Danish,” and on which side “Sweet roll?”
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Ira Spector is an author and freelance writer who divides his time between abodes in the Coronado Cays and downtown San Diego.