Breakfast at Tiffany's

Well, not really! I just thought the title might be eye-catching. It is about breakfast however. The other day I made my way to the ante meridian institutional repast feeling mild trepidation as usual. We are seated more or less at random so we never know who our table companions might be turn out to be. I’m an adventurous sort and am nearly always willing to take a chance in the hope of meeting up with someone who might have a few curious comments. As one approaches the portal on a particular day it is always somewhat daunting to imagine how it might work out on that morning.

I should note at this point that this account may or may not be fictitious--or at least parts of it may or may not be true. This protects both the innocent and the guilty.

On this day I had a very pleasant lady seated at my right, one whom we will call Alice. During the course of conversation Alice said, “I hate California.”

“Oh,” I said, “Did you live there?” 

“No,” she said.

I asked, “Have you visited there?”

“Yes,” she said. 

“Where?”  I asked.

“I don’t remember,” she said. “It was freezing cold with the wind blowing in off the ocean.”

“Was it San Francisco?” 

“No,” she replied. “I think it was San Diego. It was roasting hot away from the ocean and freezing cold near the ocean.”

“Were there other things you didn’t like about the place?”

“Yes,” she said, “They have earthquakes and things.”

“Did they have an earthquake while you were there?”

“---(no reply)---.”  

“Usually earthquakes are fairly local. Most people never experience them. I don’t recall any notable events in San Diego in the last half century or so,” I commented.

"Also, when I walked down the street I heard all these different languages. People ought to speak English," she remarked somewhat tangentially.

I strongly resisted the urge to launch  into a history lesson on father Junipero Serra who came to California in 1770, recently made a saint by Pope Francis. I have learned somewhat painfully as a teacher that persons in their 90s are not particularly susceptible to lessons or new information, specially on history, religion, geography, or politics.
 
 Our conversation ended pleasantly without further comment.

This episode reminded me of a very entertaining Englishman. His name was Sydney Smith. Smith was the funny man of England in the first half of the 19^th Century.  His letters and bon mots were legion and hilarious.  Among his host of correspondents were Daniel Webster, Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, and hundreds of others.  He was a Minister in the Church of England, but I must say, he had some highly irreverent things to say about bishops and other like creatures.

The quote that particularly applied in the above situation was  - "Don't mind poor Sir Jeffrey, Only last week he was heard to make insulting remarks about the equator"